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THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE   PHANTOM   SHIP. 

Strong  head  winds  have  kept  her  from  landing 
Till  ray  head  is  white  as  the  snow — 
'  There  she  comes  through  the  foam  of  the  breakers— 
She'll  soon  be  in  harbor,  I  know." 


POEMS 


INDIANAPOLIS  : 
CARL  ON    &    HOLLENBEC.  K 

IT  HUSHED   KOK  THE  ArTIIOK. 

1881. 


COPYRIGHT  BY 

WILLIAM    KNOWLES. 
1881. 


TO  MY  PATRONS. 


"WHY  were  these  poems  ever  written?" 

Of  course  "not  meant  for  publication," 
But  because  I'm  badly  smitten 
With  a  rhyming  inclination. 

."  Well,  is  it  right  you  should  indulge  it, 

And  waste  your  time,  and  ink,  and  paper?" 

"  Aye,  there's  the  rub" — shall  I  divulge  it, 
Why  I'm  cutting  such  a  caper? 

Is  it  for  fame?     If  I  could  win  it, 

'T  would  hardly  now  be  worth  the  trouble — 
I'm  old.     If  there  were  "millions  in  it" 

'T  would  bust,  like  every  other  bubble. 

And  yet — well,  yes,  to  tell  the  truth — 
I  know  I  should  be  "awful"  glad 

To  hear  my  friends  exclaim :  "  Forsooth, 
Why,  after  all,  they're  not  so  bad." 

Deal  gently  with  me — much  I  fear 
You'll  find  a  woful  lack  of  knowledge ; 

But  let  me  whisper  in  your  ear : 

"  Young  man,  I  never  went  to  college." 

These  stanzas,  made  of  home-spun  stuff", 

Are  f ashion'd  just  as  fancy  led ; 
And  so  I  trust,  though  pretty  rough, 

With  kind  indulgence  they'll  be  read. 


Homer,  Ohio,  January  1,  1882. 


WM.  KNOWLES. 


759758 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS. 


PAGE. 

The  President's  Dream,         .......  1 

You  and  I,         ..... 

"  Death  to  the  Union,"         ......                 .  5 

What  Makes  the  World  Go  Round  ...'....  6 

Ten  Thousand  Men  for  Maine, 8 

Freedom's  Lament,    .........  9 

What  Beyond? 10 

The  Grey  Beards, .         .  H 

The  Orphans, 12 

Investigation, 14 

Address  to  the  Ague, 19 

Nil  Desperandum, 20 

When  My  Ship  Comes  Home,        ........  21 

The  Poor  the  Poor  Man's  Friend 23 

The  Drunkard's  Knell, 24 

Stanzas, 26 

The  Power  of  Music,      .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .         .  2!) 

Betsy  and  I  are  One, .",() 

Lines  Suggested   by  Heading  Will  Carlton's  "  Out  of  the  Old   House, 

Nancy,  into  the  New," ....:;."> 

Dear  Willie, 37 

Sympathy, 39 

The  Las£  Decade, 39 

To  William  K., .         .  43 

To  A.  B.C.,         .         .         .         . II 

Lines  Written  while  Suffering, from  a  Dangerous  Accident,         .         .  r> 

Morning, '.         .         .         .         .         .  47 

The  Conqueror,       . 48 

A  Brighter  Picture, •">() 

To  My  Boy, 53 

A  New  Version  of  Yankee  Doodle, 54 

John    Brown,           ...........  '>~> 

The  Nearer  the  Bone  the  Sweeter  the  Meat, :,7 


viii  Table  of  Contents. 

Six   Feet  by  Two,                   . 58 

Sunset, 58 

Kesponse  to  "Sunset," 59 

Lines  Written  on  Board  the  Steamship  Italy,  .....  60 

Lines  Written  on  Board  the  "  Wyoming,"     ......  61 

"An  Old,  Old   Tale"  (Tail?),    " 62 

Sequel  to  "An  Old,  Old  Tale," 65 

The  Flag  of  Our  Fathers, 67 

Lines  on  Hearing  a  Little  Child  Exclaim  in  her  Sleep,  "Thou,  God, 

Secst  Me," 69 

To  Maggie,          .                 70 

To  the  Ladies  of  the  Bible  Society,        ......;  71 

On  the  Death  of  Miss  M.  Henthorn, 72 

To  a  Lady, 73 

On  the  Death  of  Horace  Greeley,       ....'...  75 

Penitential,     .                          76 

To  Mrs.  Susan  Morehouse  on  her  Eightieth  Birthday,     .         .         .  77 

To  Mrs.  Susan  Morehouse  on  her  Eighty-second  Birthday,         .         .  78 

Immortality,  • 79 

"  Lay  up  your  Treasures  in  Heaven," 80 

Farewell, 81 

A  Vale  of  Tears, 82 

The  Battle  of  Life, '     .  83 

Hurrah! 85 

CONTEIBUTED   POEMS. 

The  Distressed  Highwayman,         .         . 87 

The  Old  Farm  Spring, 92 

Faith, 93 

On  the  Presentation  of  an  Umbrella,         ......  95 

"  Fear  Not,  for  I  am  with  Thee,"         .         .         .                 .         .         .  95 

Decoration  Day, 96 

To  Dear  Fannie, .         .  97 

Whom  the  Lord  Loveth  he  Chasteneth, 98 

Little  Things, '     .  99 

Guilty  or  Not  Guilty?        ........  101 


POEMS. 


THE  PRESIDENT'S  DREAM. 

IN  a  small  cottage  by  the  ocean's  side 

Lies  our  poor  President !    The  ebbing  tide 

Of  precious  life  had  fallen  very  low, 

And  round  his  couch  was  silence,  gloom  and  woe. 

The  dastard — I  will  not  write  his  name 
On  the  same  page  with  his  of  glorious  fame — 
'T  was  hell's  own  agent  fir'd  the  traitor's  shot ; 
Curs'd  be  his  name,  and  may  his  mem'ry  rot ! 

But  Garfield  lies  a  dying — near  his  end — 

The  statesman,  patriot,  scholar,  Christian-,  friend, 

The  husband,  father,  center'd  all  in  one  ; 

The  nation's  chief,  Ohio's  favorite  son. 

Boldly  in  youth  he  fought  his  way  to  fame  ; 
Meekly  he  wore  his  honors  when  they  came  ; 
Bravely  he  met  adversity's  shock  ; 
Firmly  his  faith  was  resting  on  that  rock 

Which  earth,  nor  hell,  or  time  can  move, 
Assur'd  that  all  is  well  and  God  is  love. 
Yet  ere  his  spirit  took  its  upward  flight 
To  dwell  with  God  in  realms  of  pure  delight, 


The  Presidents  Dream. 

His  wand'ring  mind  once  more  to  Mentor  flew, 
And  each  familiar  object  pass'd  in  view  ; 
Dear  old  homestead  !  into  every  nook 
He  takes  a  fond,  regretful,  lingering  look. 

His  books,  his  pictures — yes,  he  sees  them  all- 
Aye,  there  is  Hiram  College  on  the  wall ; 
But  more  :  lo  !  in  her  old  accustom'd  chair 
His  honor'd  mother  sits  with  silver'd  hair. 

With  beaming  eyes  and  one  great  throb  of  joy 
She  presses  to  her  heart  her  noble  boy  ; 
Here  is  his  gentle,  faithful,  precious  wife, 
And  loving  children  full  of  bounding  life. 

No  cares  of  state  come  here  to  mar  his  bliss, 
"Tis  home,  sweet  home,  brimful  of  happiness. 
Anon  he  sees  the  garden,  buildings,  stock, 
His  old-time  neighbors  and  his  much-priz'd  flock. 

There  are  the  fields  he  till'd  in  days  of  yore, 
He  '11  take  a  ramble  over  them  once  more  ; 
The  ruling  passion  strong  in  death  appear'd — 
'Twas  "Nature's  voice,  and  Nature  will  be  heard." 

Who  can  the  spirit's  wond'rous  flight  control? 
Where  is  the  mystic  homestead  of  the  soul? 
Is  there  among  the  mansions  of  the  blest 
A  "  Mentor"  where  the  weary  soul  can  rest — 

Some  sweet  sequester' d  spot  call'd  home,  more  dear 
Than  all  God's  other  splendid  buildings  there? 
I  trow  there  is,  but  yet  'tis  hard  to  tell ; 
Our  Father  knows — enough.     Gartield,  farewell. 


)'on 


YOU  AND  I. 

You  and  I,  friend  A,  B,  C, 

Have  known  each  other  twenty  years  ; 
Yes,  more  than  that,  'bout  twrenty-three, 

By  memory's  record  it  appears. 

Mighty  changes  time  has  wrought 
Since  first  we  met  in  Hartford  town  ; 

Many  wise  plans  have  come  to  naught, 
Some  men  gone  up,  and  some  come  down. 

But  you  and  I  are  grand-dads  now  ; 

Your  beard  is  badly  mixed  with  gray, 
And  my  old  pate's  as  white  as  snow — 

Our  lives  are  flitting  fast  away. 

The  world  goes  round  with  rapid  pace, 
More  than  a  thousand  miles  an  hour ; 

The  hub's  well  oil'd,  all  things  in  place, 
Showing  consummate  skill  and  power. 

Some  enterprising  Yankee  yet 

(Should  he  meet  with  no  disaster), 

Will  a  "  darn'd  "  queer  patent  get, 
To  make  it  spin  a  little  faster. 

Well,  let  the  Yankee  have  his  fun, 

It  matters  not  to  you  and  I, 
We'll  take  a  glance  at  what's  been  done 

This  famous  nineteenth  century. 

Science  and  art  with  giant  hands 

Have  given  man  a  jolly  boost, 
Till  like  a  demi-god  he  stands, 

And  old  ideas  are  gone  to  roost. 


You  and  I. 

Electricity  and  steam 

Annihilating  time  and  space, 
Have  outstripp'd  Phoebus'  famous  team, 

And  mixed  up  half  the  human  race. 

China's  big  front  door  is  open, 

And  pig-tails  swarm  in  San  Francisco  ; 
Japan's  old  rusty  locks  are  broken, 

And  who  now  wonders  that  it  is  so? 

Light  and  knowledge  marching  on, 
Are  penetrating  every  nation, 

Blending  the  human  race  in  one 
Almighty,  grand  conglomeration. 

One  brotherhood  —  and  you  and  I 
(Mere  atoms  of  the  living  mass) 

Can't  conjecture,  if  we  try, 

What  wonders  next  will  come  to  pass. 

Man  is  but  in  his  infancy, 

And  must  work  out  his  destiny- 

Labor,  progress,  victory, 

"  Onward  and  upward  is  the  cry." 


glorious  themes  to  write  upon  ; 
Immortal  honors  will  be  won, 
By  future  Humes,  Macaulays,  Gibbons, 
As  freedom's  car  rolls  grandly  on, 
And  Uncle  Sammy  holds  the  ribbons. 


"Death  to  the   Union''' 


"DEATH  TO  THE  UNION." 

(TOOMBS.) 

"  DEATH  to  the  Union  !  "  hear  the  traitor's  cry, 
"  Death  to  the  Union  !  "  shout  the  "  chivalry," 
"  Death  to  the  Union  !  "  southern  girls  are  singing, 
"  Death  to  the  Union  !  "  thro'  the  South  is  ringing. 

"  Down  with  the  glorious  flag  our  fathers  raised, 
When  freedom's  fires  in  patriots'  bosoms  blaz'd  ; 
Down  with  the  banner  tells  of  equal  right, 
And  quench  the  stars  on  slavery's  black  night !  " 

Methinks  I  see  from  off  their  silent  beds 
Our  sleeping  heroes  raise  their  wondering  heads  ; 
They  start — they  wake — they  rise,  and  once  again 
Stand  marshall'd  on  the  embattled  plain. 

The  bugle  calls — ten  thousand  swords  are  flashing ; 
The  rushing  squadrons  to  the  front  are  dashing ! 
The  rifles  crack,  the  thundering  cannons  roar, 
And  all  the  field  is  steep'd  in  human  gore. 

Brother  meets  brother  in  the  fearful  strife, 
And  nearest  kindred  take  each  other's  life  ; 
All  hell  is  mov'd — Satan's  exulting  cry 
Mingles  with  dying  groans  and  shouts  of  victory. 

Is  freedom  worth  this  bloody  sacrifice"' 
Must  it  be  bought  at  this  tremendous  price? 
With  ^  idovvs'  bitter  tears  and  orphans'  cries, 
•While  pitying  angels  weep  o'er  human  miseries. 


What  Makes  the    World  Go  Round  f 

Were  it  not  best  to  bend  the  supple  knee 
And  meekly  bow  to  haughty  tyranny? 
To  cringe  and  smile — all  opposition  cease, 
And  humbly  beg  the  blessed  boon  of  peace? 

In  thunder  tones  all  freemen  answer,  No! 
Not  while  the  earth  turns  round  or  waters  flow  ; 
Not  till  the  glorious  sun  shall  cease  to  rise, 
Or  God's  own  crescent  shall  adorn  the  skies. 

Know  that  immortal  freedom's  priceless  gem 
I  set  forever  in  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
Rivers  of  blood  can't  quench  the  sacred  flame — 
It  glows  and  burns  eternally  the  same. 

Our  dauntless  heroes  ne'er  their  sires  disgrac'd, 
They  nobly  fought  for  freedom,  won,  and  plac'd 
The  wreath  of  victory  on  Columbia's  brow  ; 
Curs' 'd  be  the  trembling  coward  falters  now  ! 


WHAT  MAKES  THE  WORLD  GO  ROUND? 

ROUND  and  round  from  west  to  east, 

A  thousand  miles  an  hour,  at  least — 

Ever  revolving,  never  at  rest 

(Such  is  the  mighty  Creator's  behest)  ; 

Shrouded  in  darkness,  glowing  in  light, 

Day  alternately  following  night ; 

Summer  and  winter,  springtime  and  fall, 

Each  with  its  beauties  and  blessings  for  all ; 

Govern'd  by  laws  immutably  wise, 

The  wonder  of  angels,  the  gem  of  the  skies  ; 

Well  might  the  seraphs  exult  at  thy  birth, 

Beautiful,  wonderful,  beautiful  Earth  ! 


What  Makes  the    World  Go  Round? 

9 

Here  stand  the  mountains,  grand  and  sublime. 

Defying  the  utmost  endeavors  of  time 

To  crumble  them  down  ; 

Their  snowy  peaks,  rising  for  many  a  mile, 

Look  down  on  the  storms  in  the  clouds  with  a  smile. 

There  rolls  the  ocean,  vast,  fathomless,  grand, 

Its  billows  forever  are  lashing  the  strand — 

Eternity's  emblem,  mysterious  sea, 

Majestic,  omnipotent,  boundless  and  free. 

Here  rivers,  and  valleys,  and  forests  are  seen, 

There  the  cascade  rushes  down  the  ravine  ; 

O'er  the  cliff'  the  bright,  flashing  water  is  hurl'd — 

Magnificent,  exquisite,  glorious  world  ! 

Countless  millions  of  creatures,  all  good, 
Roam  through  the  forest  and  swim  in  the  flood, 
Dance  in  the  sunbeams  and  creep  on  the  ground — 
Everywhere  beautiful  beings  are  found. 

Beautiful  flowers  are  everywhere  growing, 
Beautiful  water  is  constantly  flowing  ; 
Musical  birds  raise  their  anthems  of  praise 
To  the  Giver  of  Life,  the  Ancient  of  Days  ; 
And  here  is  proud  man,  the  lord  of  the  whole, 
All  earth's  creation  beneath  his  control. 
Wonderful  being !  the  image  of  God, 
Enshrin'd  in  a  temple  that's  made  from  a  clod  ! 
What  is  his  destiny?     How  came  I  here? 
I  know  I'm  immortal — death  I  don't  fear. 
When  I'm  rebuilt  at  my  spiritual  birth, 
Shall  I  revisit  thee,  beautiful  earth  ? 
I  know  not,  I  care  not — one  thing  I  know  : 
My  Father  is  with  me  wherever  I  go. 
Infinite  wisdom  is  everywhere  found, 
Infinite  love  makes  the  world  go  round. 


Ten   Thousand  Men  for  Maine. 


TEN  THOUSAND  MEN  FOR  MAINE. 

"  Ho  !  ten  thousand  men  for  Maine  " — 
The  devil  has  broke  loose  again  ! 
Freemen,  arm,  march  boldly  on  ; 
Down  with  the  tyrant,  Garcelon  ! 

Shall  our  Eastern  Star  be  blotted 
Out  of  heaven  by  men  besotted? 
Shall  liberty  and  justice  die 
While  we  stand  gaping  idly  by? 

Men  of  Ohio,  'tis  our  cause; 
Whoever  overrides  the  laws  . 
Of  freedom,  strikes  a  dastard  blow 
At  all,  and  is  our  common  foe. 

Dim  not  the  glories  of  the  past — 
Our  laurels  now  are  fading  fast — 
Shall  our  brothers  call  in  vain? 
"  Ho  !  ten  thousand  men  for  Maine  !  " 

Hark  !  I  hear  the  drum's  long  roll 
Stirring  each  freeman's  inmost  soul : 
Hurrah,  brave  boys  !     Hurrah  again  ! 
"  Ten  times  ten  thousand  men  for  Maine  !  " 


freedom's  Lament. 


FREEDOM'S  LAMENT. 

SWEET  home  of  my  fathers,  dear  land  of  the  free, 
Ah,  why  did  J  ride  o'er  the  dark  rolling  wave? 

Why  tempt  the  wild  storms  of  the  wide  western  sea 
To  find  a  new  home  in  the  land  of  the  slave? 

For  the  high-soaring  eagle,  the  first  of  his  race, 
Is  fainting  and  feeble — his  pinions  are  weak  ; 

The  owl  and  the  buzzard  the  hypocrite  chase, 

And  the  motto  of  "Liberty"  falls  from  his  beak. 

Thy  banner  is  soil'd,  its  stars  are  all  dimm'd, 
And  its  ominous  stripes  are  all  sadly  confus'd ; 

Pale  Liberty  trembles,  her  face  all  begrimed, 

For  she  feels  that  her  name  has  been  badly  abus'd. 

Indignant  she  cries,  as  she  points  to  the  west: 

"  Ah  !  where  are  my  prairies,  once  sacred  to  me, 
As  beauteous  as  Eden,  the  home  of  the  blest, 
Ere  Adam  his  Maker's  command  had  transgress'd, 
Or  Satan  exulted,  his  ruin  to  see?  " 

A  blast  from  the  north  now  pierces  my  frame, 
Whose  cold  icy  touch  almost  freezes  my  breath  ; 

The  south  never  knew  me,  but  scoffs  at  my  name, 
Now  loads  me  with  curses  and  hopes  for  my  death. 

Ah,  the  Mayflower  is  wither'd — my  mission  is  done  ; 

Sad  emblem  !  I  weep  when  I  think  of  the  past ; 
It  warns  me,  alas  !  I  must  quickly  be  gone, 

For  there's  slavery's  poison  in  every  blast." 

On  the  old  Rock  of  Plymouth  despairing  she  stood, 
One  last  look  of  anguish  she  cast  o'er  the  land  ; 

A  wild  cry  arose  as  she  plung'd  in  the  flood 

Where  the  free  waves  of  ocean  roll  over  the  strand. 


io  What  Beyond? 


WHAT  BEYOND? 

AYE,  what  beyond  ?     Time  takes  its  rapid  flight ; 

The  day  is  almost  gone,  then  comes  the  night. 

"What  of  the  night?"  Oh  faithful  watchman,  tell ! 

"What  of  the  night?"   Oh,  tell  me;  is  it  well? 

Shall  I  lie  down  to  peaceful,  pleasant  dreams, 

And  wake  with  joy  when  the  bright  morning  gleams  ? 

Shall  I  escape  the  everlasting  curse 

When  God's  own  trumpet  shakes  the  universe? 

Shall  I  with  rapture  hear  the  Savior  say, 

"Well  done,  my  friend  ;"  or  be  a  castaway? 

Momentous  question  !     Soul-absorbing  thought ! 

With  what  tremendous  consequences  fraught ! 

Where  is  the  talent  trusted  to  my  care? 

What  is  its  fruit,  if  any  ;  tell  me  where? 

What  of  my  stewardship?     Alas  !  alas  ! 

The  faulty  documents  will  never  pass, 

For  God's  omniscient  eye  surveys  the  whole, 

Probes  every  thought  and  penetrates  the  soul. 

What  shall  I  do?     Where  hide  my  guilty  head? 

No  refuge  left ;  all  hope  forever  fled. 

Thanks  be  to  God!  a  1  ght  breaks  through  the  gloom 

Whose  hallow'd  rays  my  troubled  soul  illume. 

"All  hail  Immanuel!"  mighty  Savior,  hail! 

Thy  blood  can  over  all  my  guilt  prevail ; 

On  Thee,  on  Thee  alone  is  all  my  trust, 

That  when  this  body  mingles  with  the  dust 

My  ransom'd  soul  will  take  its  upward  flight 

And  dwell  with  thee  in  realms  of  endless  light. 


The    Gray-Beards.  1 1 


THE  GRAY-BEARDS. 

THE  gray-beards  met  in  grave  deliberation, 
Devising  ways  to  save  this  mighty  nation. 
Some  measures  they  debated,  and  some  pass'd, 
But  none  were  compar'd  in  wisdom  to  the  last. 
Like  learned,  smart,  good,  calculating  scholars, 
Each  biped  made  a  grab  and  stole  five  thousand  dollars, 
And  laid  it  up  against  a  rainy  day, 
Lest  Uncle  Sam  should  squander  it  away. 

In  the  Good  Book  a  story  has  been  told  ; 
(If  I  mistake  not),  though  the  tale  is  old — 
Great  Pharaoh's  servants  made  a  stupid  blunder. 
The  king  got  mad  and  gave  the  scoundrels  thunder, 
And  shut  them  up  in  limbo,  where,  it  seems, 
The  butler  and  the  baker  had  strange  dreams, 
Which  their  dull  noddles  could  not  comprehend, 
But  Joseph  told  them  how  the  thing  would  end. 
After  three  days  the  baker  was  strung  up, 
And  the  free  butler  once  more  bore  the  cup 
Fill'd  with  royal  liquor  of  most  luscious  flavor, 
Which  shows  that  "kissing  always  goes  by  favor/' 

MORAL. 

Unlucky  rogues  are  from  the  gallows  swung. 
While  the  chief  butlqrs  still  remain  unhung. 


12  The  Orphans. 


THE  ORPHANS. 

Sister. 

COME,  sit  down  beside  me,  dear  brother, 
And  let  me  take  hold  of  your  hand  ; 

Let  us  talk  of  dear  father  and  mother, 
Who  have  gone  to  the  heavenly  land. 

Dear  father  was  handsome  and  strong 

Before  the  bad  fever  he  took  ; 
What  music  there  was  in  his  song ! 

How  pleasant  and  kind  was  his  look  ! 

And  when  his  long  day's  work  was  done, 
He  would  take  us  both  upon  his  knee  ; 

Oh  !  didn't  we  have  lots  of  fun? 
No  children  so  happy  as  we. 

What  nice  little  songs  he  would  sing : 

"  Goosey  Gander"  or  "  Little  Tom  Horner," 
"  Robin  put  your  head  under  your  wing," 
Or  help  us  play  "  Puss  in  the  Corner." 

Mamma  would  look  up  from  her  work — 

Try  to  scold,  but  would  laugh  all  the  while — 

Call  father  a  "noisy  old  Turk," 

Say  the  neighbors  could  hear  us  a  mile. 

Her  eyes  were  as  black  as  a  coal, 

And  her  voice  was  so  gentle  and  sweet ; 

How  quick  she  would  mend  a  big  hole, 
And  rock  little  Dot  with  her  feet. 


The  Orphans, 

Her  hair  hung  in  curls  and  was  shiny, 
'T  was  the  color  of  buckeyes,  you  know  ; 

Her  cheeks  'most  as  red  as  a  piny, 
Her  forehead  almost  white  as  snow. 

And  when  the  old  clock  had  struck  seven, 
She  would  have  us  kneel  down  by  her  chair 

And  say,  "  Our  Father  in  Heaven," 
Or  our  other  short  evening  prayer. 

Then  perhaps  she  would  tell  us  of  Jesus, 

Who  loved  little  children  so  well 
That  he  came  down  from  heaven  to  save  us, 

And  other  nice  stories  would  tell. 

But  tell  me,  dear  brother,  I  pray, 

If  God  is  so  good  and  so  kind, 
Why  take  our  dear  parents  away 

And  leave  us  poor  children  behind? 

Oh  !  Charley,  I'm  lonesome  and  sad  ; 

There  is  nobody  left  now  but  you. 
Poor  mother! — I  think  it's  too  bad, 

And  dear  little  Dot  is  gone,  too. 

Brother. 

Don't  cry,  little  sister,  don't  cry — 

Come,  lay  your  head  down  on  my  shoulder  ; 
I  know  you  feel  bad,  so  do  I, 

But  then  I'm  a  boy,  and  am  older. 

Our  Father  in  heaven  is  kind, 

And  loves  all  his  children,  we  know  ; 

He  will  shelter  his  lambs  from  the  wind, 
For  you  know  dear  mamma  told  us  so. 


1 4  Investigation . 

When  they  call'd  us  to  kiss  her  good-bye, 
And  her  eyes  were  just  closing  in  death, 

She  pointed  her  hand  to  the  sky 

And  smiled  as  she  drew  her  last  breath. 

And  now  she  is  sleeping  with  father  and  Dot, 
And  evergreens  grow  near  their  tomb  ; 

We  '11  plant  some  sweet  flowers  all  over  the  spot 
When  the  snow-drops  and  violets  come. 

'Mid  the  toil  and  the  strife  of  the  battle  of  life, 

If  we're  faithful  and  true,  when  we  die 
We'll  be  orphans  no  more,  but  on  Canaan's  bright 

shore 
We  will  meet  all  our  friends  by-and-by,  by- 

and-by — 
We  will  meet  all  our  friends  by-and-by. 


INVESTIGATION. 

1876. 

i. 
COMPATRIOTS  all  who  have  at  heart 

The  welfare  of  the  nation  ; 
Come  lend  a  hand  and  bear  a  part 

In  our  investigation. 

ii. 
There's  rotten  in  the  State, 

A  poison  in  the  air, 
Investigate,  investigate, 

'Tis  stinking  everywhere. 


Investigation .  1 5 

in. 
At  Gotham  and  at  Washington 

It  makes  an  awful  smell ; 
Oh,  what  the  deuce  is  going  on? 

Can  anybody  tell  ? 

IV. 

Satan's  imps  are  getting  frisky, 

Out  upon  a  bursting  swell, 
And  it  seems  that  "  crooked"  whisky's 

Coming  straight  right  out  of well. 

v. 
If  the  famous  witch  of  Endor 

Were  alive  again  to-day, 
Rigg'd  in  all  her  pull-back  splendor, 

Perhaps  we  might  obtain  a  ray 

VI. 

Of  light  from  her  dark  incantation 

To  aid  in  our  investigation, 
And  dispel  the  botheration 

Which  perplexes  all  the  nation. 

VII. 

Great  Washington  is  rising  now  ; 

I  see  his  form  amid  the  gloom, 
A  troubled  cloud  upon  his  brow, 

And  in  his  hand  a  mighty  broom. 

VIII. 

Straight  to  the  Capitol  he's  bound, 
Woe  to  the  guilty,  if  they're  found, 

They'd  better  stand  from  under, 
For  should  he  catch  the  scallawags 
With  Uncle  Sammy's  money-bags, 

He'll  give  the  scoundrels  thunder  ! 


1 6  Investigation. 

O 


IX. 

He's  quickly  purified  the  house, 

And  dusted  every  room  ; 
And  at  the  door  for  future  use 

Hung  up  his  mighty  broom. 

x. 

Now  at  the  White  House  door  he  knocks 
He's  shaken  hands  with  Blaine, 

Nodded  to  Bristow  and  to  Cox, 
And  going  home  again. 

XI. 

But  much  he's  urg'd  to  take  a  ride 
And  see  the  mammoth  show, 

And  presently  he  is  inside 
The  Washington  depo'. 

XII.  ' 

And  now  he's  pulled  his  wrallet  out 

And  counted  o'er  his  dimes  ; 
Is  undecided  and  in  doubt, 

And  talks  about  "  hard  times." 

XIII. 

He'd  like  to  go,  "  oh  yes,  sir-ee, 

He'd  pretty  soon  be  there, 
But  can't,  unless  they  will  agree, 

To  take  him  for  half  fare." 

XIV. 

The  railroad  bosses  all  look  glum, 

On  every  side  they  view  it, 
At  last  to  this  conclusion  come, 

And  guess'd  they'd  better  do  it. 


Investigation . 

XV. 

So  now  he's  seated  in  the  cars, 

And  all  goes  very  clever ; 
The  people  shout  along  the  route 

"  Brave  Washington  forever  !  " 

XVI. 

The  Quaker  City  soon  they  gain, 

And  lo  !  near  all  creation 
Have  tumbled  out  to  see  the  train 

Come  thundering  to  the  station. 

XVII. 

The  stars  and  stripes  are  everwhere, 

The  ladies,  highfaluting, 
Glad  shouts  of  triumph  fill  the  air, 

The  Continentals  shooting. 

XVIII. 

And  now  a  hundred  cannons  roar, 
A  hundred  drums  are  beating  ; 

A  hundred  towers,  with  all  their  powers, 
Ring  out  their  joyful  greeting. 

XIX. 

'Tis  all  "tip  top,"  and  now  we  go 

Amid  the  surging  throng, 
To  see  the  wond'rous  mighty  show, 

A  hundred  thousand  strong. 

xx. 

A  hundred  tongues  can  not  explain 
Its  grand  and  matchless  glory, 

A  hundred  tomes  could  not  contain 
One-half  the  wond'rous  storv. 


1 8  Investigation . 

XXI. 

Here  Europe,  Asia,  Africa, 

Old  China  and  Japan  ; 
The  far-off  islands  of  the  sea, 

And  Brother  Jonathan, 

XXII. 

Have  met  together  and  displayed 
The  wonders  wrought  by  man, 

To  show  what  progress  art  has  made 
Since  time  itself  began. 

XXIII. 

Hail  to  the  chief  who  heroes  led, 

A  hundred  years  ago  ; 
Who  for  their  country  fought  and  bled, 

And  bravely  met  the  foe  ! 

XXIV. 

In  ecstasy,  his  heart  brimful 
Of  glowing  love,  he  stands, 

And  Lafayette  and  Johnny  Bull 
With  him  are  shaking  hands. 

XXV. 

For  Justice,  Faith  and  Liberty, 
All  boldly  have  outspoken, 

And  may  we  never  live  to  see 

The  "three-fold  cord"  be  broken. 

XXVI. 

But  I  must  stop — to  tell  it  all, 
I'd  write  a  thousand  stanzas, 

Unwind  of  "yarn"   a  mighty  ball, 
Would  stretch  from  Maine  to  Kansas. 


Address  to  the  Ague.  19 

XXVII. 

For  six  whole  days,  from  morn  till  night 

(Commencing  on  a  Monday), 
The  good  old  man  enjoyed  the  sight, 
And  then,  because  he  knew  'twas  right, 

Lock'd  up  the  gates  on  Sunday. 

XXVIII. 

My  ballad's  done,  my  muse  is  tir'd, 

I'll  lay  it  on  the  shelf, 
And  if  a  longer  yarn's  desired, 

Investigate  yourself. 


ADDRESS  TQ  THE  AGUE. 

.» 

DETESEED  offspring  of  a  rotten  bog  ! 

Abhor'd  disease  !  drawn  by  the  sickening  sun 
From  slimy  waters  that  would  choke  a  dog, 

How  does  thy  cursed  venom  through  me  run ! 

Thou  shivering,  burning,  sweating,  yellow  fiend, 
With  sallow  visage  and  with  fetid  breath — 

An  uglier  monster  never,  sure,  was  yean'd 
Than  thou,  fell  ague — thou,  a  living  death  ! 

The  Scottish  bard  has  told  of  toothache's  pangs, 
And  well  portrayed  its  sleepless  agony  ; 

But  when  it  sticks  its  sharpest  fangs 

Into  your  jaws  with  horrid  twangs, 

'Tis  but  a  "circumstance"  compar'd  to  thee. 


2O  Nil  Desperandum. 

Some  smiling  dentist  will,  with  giant  fist 

(When  you  get  mad  and  kick  the  stools  about), 

Give,  with  his  instrument,  a  gentle  twist, 
And  quickly  yank  the  offending  molar  out. 

But,  ah  !  I  am  cold  and  sick — 

I  know  too  well  what  'tis  the  matter — 

Darnation  !  you  have  spoil'd  my  rhyme, 

But  still  my  teeth  will  chatter,  chat-ter,  chat-ter, 
c-h-a-t-t-e-r . 


NIL  DESPERANDUM. 

TEN  pair  of  tyes  looking  for  bread, 
Half  a  score  mouths,  all  to  be  fed — 
No  flour,  the  meat  and  potatoes  all  gone — 
Not  a  "  shot  in  the  locker."    What's  to  be  done? 
Yield  to  despair,  sit  down  and  cry? 
Nil  desperandum!   "  Never  say  die." 
No  butter,  no  sugar,  no,  nothing  at  all — 
Oh,  yes,  there's  some  wood,  but  the  pile's  very  small  ; 
"  Borrow  some  meal,  Maggie  ;   make  us  some  mush — 
Come  to  the  fire,  children  ;  little  ones,  hush  ! 
There's  some  coffee,  though,  left ;  by  Aaron  and  Moses 
We'll  have  some  hot  coffee  to  warm  our  cold  noses  ! 
Here  comes  the  meal,  and  the  water  is  hot ; 
Stir  plenty  in,  wife — make  a  good  lot ; 
Go,  little  daughter,  and  bring  me  the  books — 
We'll  have  family  worship  while  the  meal  cooks. 

"The  sixth  chapter  of  Mark  is  what  I  have  read  ; 
With  two  little  fishes  and  five  loaves  of  bread, 
Now  tell  me,  my  children,  how  many  were  fed? 
'  Five  thousand,'  you  answer  me,  all  in  a  chorus, 


When  My  Ship   Comes  Home.  21 

And  the  same  mighty  Savior  is  still  watching  o'er  us. 
Turn  to  the  hymn,  wife — you  know  where  the  page  is, 
But  I  guess  we  all  know  it ;  we'll  sing  '  Rock  of  Ages,' 
Then  spend  a  few  minutes  in  prayer  and  thanksgiving 
To  God  that  we're  still  in  the  land  of  the  living. 

"  Now  for  the  breakfast — there's  plenty  for  all ; 
I'll  step  to  the  door,  I  hear  somebody  call. 

Some  work  to  be  done,  and  'tis  wanted  right 

soon  ; 

Hurrah  !  we'll  have  a  whole  v.ollar  by  noon  ; 
Never  fear,  little  wife,  we  shall  see  better  days — 
I  wouldn't  change  places  with  President  Hayes  : 
We're  healthy  and  happy,  although  we  are  poor ; 
Nil  desperandum  !  God's  promise  is  sure. ' ' 


WHEN  MY  SHIP  COMES  HOME. 

I'M  building  a  splendid  castle, 
With  marble  walls  and  dome  ; 

'Twill  be  finish'd  in  the  summer, 
When  my  ship  comes  home. 

I'll  have  beautiful  statues  and  paintings, 
From  famous  old  Greece  and  Rome, 

And  costly  carpets  and  mirrors. 
When  my  ship  comes  home. 

I'll  have  a  grand  old  librarv. 
With  many  a  rare  old  tome, 

Where  I  can  feast  with  the  muses, 
When  my  ship  comes  home. 


22  When  My  Ship   Comes  Home. 

Til  have  enchanting  gardens, 
Where  beauty  delights  to  roam, 

With  flowers,  and  fountains,  and  grottoes, 
When  my  ship  comes  home. 

I'll  have  carriages,  horses,  and  servants,. 

Who  all  at  my  bidding  will  come  ; 
Fll  have  pastures  for  sheep  and  for  cattle, 

When  my  ship  comes  home. 

The  good  ship  Phantom  sail'd 

Full  fifty  years  ago  ; 
My  old  friend  Hope  is  the  captain  ; 

She'll  soon  be  home,  I  know. 

She  has  frequently  doubled  the  cape, 
Where  the  wild  hurricanes  blow  ; 

Her  crew  are  all  brave  and  light-hearted  ; 
She  will  soon  be  in  harbor,  I  know. 

She  is  freighted  with  untold  treasure  ; 

A  rainbow  is  spanning  her  brow  ; 
She  has  been  gallantly  plowing  the  ocean, 

And  is  homeward  bound  ere  now. 

Strong  headwinds  have  kept  her  from  landing, 
Till  my  head  is  as  white  as  the  snow  ; 

There  she  comes  through  the  foam  of  the 

breakers  ! 
She  will  soon  be  in  harbor,  I  know. 

What  hosts  of  kind  friends  then  will  meet  me, 
Beneath  my  magnificent  dome  ; 

And  beauty  will  smile  as  she  greets  me 
When  my  wonderful  ship  comes  home. 


The  Poor,  The  Poor  Mans  Friend.  •    23 

The  needy  shall  feast  on  my  bounty, 

The  wolf  fly  from  every  door ; 
There  shall  not  be  a  tear  in  the  county, 

I'll  be  rich  in  the  prayers  of  the  poor. 

Oh,  Fancy,  thou  friend  of  the  beggar ! 

On  thy  wings  let  me  soar  as  I  sing ; 
And  though  poor  as  Job's  bony  old  turkey, 

I'm  happier  than  many  a  king. 


THE  POOR,  THE  POOR  MAN'S  FRIEND. 

WHO  is  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend 
When  the  dark  hours  of  sorrow  come, 

And  want  and  sickness  both  attend, 

Like  haunting  fiends,  his  humble  home? 

Too  oft  the  rich,  with  haughty  scorn 
Or  cold  indifference,  pass  him  by, 

Regardless  of  his  state  forlorn — 
His  helpless,  hopeless  poverty. 

The  business  man,  whose  only  thought 
Is  to  add  something  to  his  store, 

Has  neither  heart  or  time  for  aught 

But  Mammon's  worship — nothing  more. 

The  gay,  voluptuous,  giddy  throng 

Who  madly  follow  pleasure's  maze, 
What  heed  they,  as  they  float  along 
'Mid  mirth  and  music,  dance  and  song. 
The  woes  that  curse  the  poor  man's  days? 


24  The  Drunkard's  Knell. 

Alas  !  full  oft  the  saintly  priest, 

In  fashion's'garb  and  mien  of  pride, 

Shuns  the  poor  home  of  the  distress'd, 
And  passes  on  the  other  side. 

Not  so  did  He  who  came  to  save, 

Whose  potent  voice  could  wake  the  dead  ; 

He  sadly  wept  at  Lazarus'  grave, 
But  had  not  where  to  lay  his  head. 

Mistake  me  not — I  do  not  mean 

That  all  the  rich  are  hard  of  heart ; 

Many  the  God-like  men,  I  ween, 
Who  act  a  noble,  Christian  part. 

But  brothers  in  adversity 

Freely  an  open  palm  extend  ; 

Their  souls  will  melt  in  sympathy  : 

The  poor  are  aye  the  poor  man's  friend. 


THE  DRUNKARD'S  KNELL. 

'T  is  sad  to  hear  the  passing  bell 

When  infant  life  is  fled, 
And  the  sweet,  budding,  opening  flower 

Lies  number'd  with  the  dead. 

But  comfort  to  the  mother's  heart 

In  Christ's  own  words  is  given  ; 
She  knows  her  darling,  precious  babe 

Is  gone  to  rest  in  heaven. 

'Tis  sad  to  hear  the  passing  bell 

When  youth  and  beauty  fall, 
And  the  high-fed  worm  on  the  damask  cheek 

Is  holding  carnival. 


The  Drunkard's  Knell.  25 

But  youth  devoted  to  the  Lord 

In  glory  shall  arise, 
And  with  fresh  beauty  bloom  again, 

Transplanted  to  the  skies. 

But,  oh !  what  sorrow  wrings  the  heart 

When  tolls  the  passing  bell, 
Noting  the  ruin  of  a  soul, 

As  rings  the  drunkard's  knell! 

How  brief  and  vile  his  mad  career, 

By  stormy  passions  toss'd  ; 
His  troubled  soul  goes  down  to  death, 

Helpless,  abandon'd,  lost ! 

Soon  will  the  slow  procession  move 

Into  the  house  of  God ; 
The  bearers,  near  the  altar  rails, 

Put  down  their  loathsome  load. 

Strange  solemn  silence  reigns  o'er  all ; 

(The  audience  sit  apart) 
No  voice  is  heard,  but  choking  sobs 

Come  from  the  widow's  heart. 

And  now  the  preacher  takes  his  stand 

With  calm  but  troubled  look  ; 
With  trembling  hand  he  turns  the  leaves — 

A  tear  bedews  the  book. 

Too  well  he  knows  there  is  no  text 

In  all  God's  holy  word 
That  to  the  stricken  friends  around 

Much  comfort  can  afford. 

With  faltering  voice  he  reads  and  prays, 

A  funeral  hymn  is  sung — 
The  notes  were  solemn,  broken,  low — 

Heaven's  harps  seem  all  unstrung. 


26  Stanzas. 

The  sermon  follows — painful  task — 

Some  general  truths  presented  : 
"  Death  comes  to  all,  and  pardon,  too, 
To  all  who  have  repented." 

He  dwells  on  charity — not  much 
On  faith  and  hope  is  said  ; 

No  eulogy  he  dare  pronounce — 
He  can  not  bless  the  dead. 

Open  the  coffin — gaze  once  more, 
Fond  mother,  on  thy  boy  ; 

Father,  approach — that  bloated  form 
Was  once  thy  pride  and  joy. 

Poor  wife  and  children  !     Close  the  lid, 

Again  take  up  the  bier  ; 
The  last  sad  rites  close  at  the  grave  ; 

There  drop  the  parting  tear. 

Hark  !  once  more  the  measured  notes 
Fall  from  the  tolling  bell— 

The  saddest  sound  that's  heard  on  earth 
Is  the  poor  drunkard's  knell ! 


STANZAS. 

SEE  the  bright  sun  !  the  shades  of  night 
Fly  trembling  from  his  rising  beams  ; 

The  dew-drops  melt  in  liquid  light, 

Which  from  the  golden  orient  streams. 

Gaily  he  mounts  the  azure  sky, 
Effulgent  glory  marks  his  way  ; 

Proudly  he  bears  himself  on  high, 
Triumphant  monarch  of  the  day. 


Stanzas,  27 

But  as  he  reach'd  his  "  highest  noon," 

Exulting  in  his  brightest  blaze, 
A  cloud  appeared,  which  soon,  too  soon, 

Obscured  the  glory  of  his  rays. 

Increasing  darkness  now  deforms 

The  scene,  so  beautiful  before  ; 
The  troubled  sky  is  fill'd  with  storms ; 

Now  lightnings  flash  and  thunders  roar. 

Alone,  around,  confusion  reigns  ; 

Destruction  'mid  the  uproar  flies — 
No  sun  now  shines  upon  the  plains, 

But  still  o'erwhelming  tempests  rise. 

Thus  'tis  with  man — his  infant  days 
Are  calm  and  bright,  and  full  of  joy  ; 

No  cares  distract,  no  fears  amaze 
The  heedless,  artless,  happy  boy. 

Approaching  now  to  manhood's  pride, 
His  golden  hopes  and  joys  increase  ; 

Nor  dreams  he  yet  of  aught  beside 
A  life  of  happiness  and  peace. 

But  ere  he's  reach'd  the  noon  of  life, 

How  chang'd  the  scene  !    The  gloomy  clouds 

Of  care  and  sorrow,  pain  and  strife, 
Fast  rising — soon  his  glory  shrouds. 

Where  now  his  halcyon  early  days  ? 

Where  now,  fond  man  ;  ah,  where  are  fled 
Those  youthful  hopes,  where  dazzling  rays 

Shone  like  a  meteor  o'er  thy  head? 

Yes,  like  the  meteor's  light  they  shone, 
And  fill'd  his  soul  with  prospects  fair ; 

Soon,  like  its  transient  blaze,  are  gone, 
And  naught  is  left  save  wild  despair. 


28  Stanzas. 

"  Oh,  why  has  God  created  man, 

And  dipp'd  his  infant  soul  in  joy  ; 
Then,  ere  half  his  course  is  run, 

Bid  gloomy  storms  his  bliss  destroy?" 

More  had  my  tongue  blasphemed — but  now 
A  horrid  crash  of  thunder  peaFd  ; 

Shudd'ring,  I  rais'd  my  eyes,  when  lo  ! 
A  glorious  vision  I  beheld. 

Erect,  upon  the  mystic  bow 

Appeared  a  bright,  celestial  form  ; 

Awful,  but  yet  serene  his  brow, 
Riding  majestic  o'er  the  storm. 

"  What !     Shall  vile  breathing  dust,"  he  said, 

"Arraign  the  Sovereign  of  the  world? 
Mortal,  forbear  !  lest  on  thy  head 
The  bolts  of  vengeance  should  be  hurl'd ! 

"  Know  the  decrees  of  God  are  just, 

Though  far  above  thy  feeble  sight, 
His  power  adore,  his  goodness  trust ; 
Then  shall  thy  soul  be  filled  with  light." 

"  This  wond'rous  arch — the  sacred  sign 

Of  God's  eternal  covenant, 
He  placed  in  Heaven  with  love  divine, 
To  cheer  earth's  poor  inhabitant." 

Entranc'd  I  heard,  with  rapture  gaz'd, 
When,  bursting  full  upon  my  sight, 

The  sun  in  all  his  splendor  blaz'd, 
The  vision  fled — dissolved  in  light! 


The   Power  of  Music.  29 


THE  POWER  OF  MUSIC. 

WHEN  fabled  Orpheus  touch'd  his  golden  lyre, 
Nature,  enchanted,  heard  the  thrilling  sound  ; 

Through  every  nerve  she  felt  the  sacred  fire — 

It  rose  to  heaven  above,  it  pierc'd  the  depths  profound. 

E'en  tortur'd  demons  half  forgot  their  woe, 

Grim  Pluto  smil'd  and  gave  him  back  his  love  ; 

Th'  Elysian  Fields  in  richer  beauty  glow, 

And  bliss  before  unknown  fill'd  the  blest  courts  above. 

Th'  exulting  earth  rolls  on  its  joyous  course  ; 

Rocks,  trees  and  mountains  from  their  bases  rise  ; 
The  foaming  floods  forsake  their  secret  source 

And  fling  their  sparkling  splendors  to  the  skies. 

The  shaggy  lion  and  the  grizzly  bear, 

Meek  as  the  gentle  lamb,  are  fear'd  no  more  ; 

The  wily  serpent  lends  a  list'ning  ear, 
Disarm'd  by  music's  fascinating  power. 

When  Israel's  king  with  devils  was  possess'd, 
Who  o'er  his  spirit  held  their  dark  control, 

Young  David's  harp  could  charm  his  grief  to  rest 
And  pour  new  light  and  joy  into  his  soul. 

Hark  !  "  Hail,  Columbia"  floats  along  the  vale 
And  wakes  in  every  breast  the  patriot's  fire, 

And  the  "  Star-spangled  Banner  "  tells  a  tale 
That  bids  the  soul  to  noble  deeds  aspire. 

How  sweet,  at  eve,  when  man's  rough  toil  is  o'er, 
And  twilight  bids  the  hum  of  business  cease, 

To  yield  the  soul  to  music's  mellow'd  power 
And  soothe  th'  excited  passions  into  peace  ! 


30  Betsy  and  I  Are  One. 

Ye  fair,  to  whom  kind  Providence  has  given 
The  skillful  hand  and  soft,  melodious  voice — 

Whose  magic  power  can  raise  the  soul  to  heaven 
And  teach  the  wounded  spirit  to  rejoice — 

Sing  some  sweet  melody  that  tells  of  love, 

And  "  Home,  Sweet  Home,"  with  all  its  tender  joys  ; 

Oh  !  touch  a  chord  that  lifts  the  soul  above 

The  heartlesss  world  and  all  its  senseless  noise. 

In  grateful  strains  the  harmony  prolong — 

Attune  your  hearts  and  touch  the  sweetest  string ; 

Raise  high  your  voices  in  the  sacred  song, 
And  upward  soar  upon  Devotion's  wing. 

Hark  !  Angels  join,  the  swelling  tide  of  praise — 
Each  rolling  sphere  returns  the  joyful  sound  ; 

The  "  Sons  of  God"  unite  with  men  to  raise 
The  lofty  hymn  that  floats  the  universe  around. 

Oh !  when  at  last  I  rest  my  weary  head, 

And  God  to  Death  has  his  dread  mandate  given, 

Celestial  minstrels  then  surround  my  bed, 

And  bear  my  soul,  entranc'd  in  sound,  to  heaven. 


BETSY  AND  I  ARE  ONE. 

(SEQUEL   TO   WILL   CARLETOK'S  "BETSY   AM)   I   ARE  OUT.") 

"  HOLD  your  horses,  lawyer,  I've  brought  your  paper 

"  back," 

•'  Betsy  and  I've  agreed  to  take  another  tack." 
Well ;  what  d'ye  whistle  for,  and  look  so  like  a  Jew? 
Darn'd  if  I  care  if  you  do  laugh,  for  I  can  whistle,  too. 


Betsy  and  I  Are  One.  31 

I'll  tell  you  how  it  came  about ;  when  parting  time  drew 

near, 

And  everything  was  settled,  we  both  felt  mighty  queer ; 
I  hitch' d  my  horse  up  to  your  post,  but  the  critter  had  broke 

loose ; 
When  I  got  home  'twas  dinner  time  ;  Betsy  had  "  cook'd 

a  goose." 

The  table-cloth  was  clean  and  white,  the  silver  spoons  were 

there, 

Preserves  were  on  the  table,  too,  and  her  best  chany  ware  ; 
'Twas  the  last  dinner  we  should  eat  under  the  old  roof  tree  ; 
We'd  been  together  thirty  years,  and  now  we  couldn't  agree. 

I  look'd  at  Betsy — she  had  on  the  very  gown  she  wore 
Our  wedding  day  (she'd  kept  it  nice)  some  thirty  years  be 
fore — 

A  faded  ribbon  bound  her  hair,  but  still  it  looked  befittin-', 
I  gave  it  her  that  very  day  the  lawyer  got  the  mitten. 

She  turn'd  me  out  a  cup  of  tea,  but  neither  of  us  spoke  ; 
I  couldn't  eat  a  single  bit,  but  felt  as  though  I'd  choke. 
I  handed  her  a  piece  of  goose  and  pass'd  the  plate  of  bread, 
But  Betsy  had  no  appetite,  and  only  shook  her  head. 

The  dinner  was  not  touched  at  all,  for  Bub  had  gone  to 

school  ; 

I  felt  right  glad  he  was  not  there  to  see  us  -play  the  fool. 
I  took  my  hat — the  dog  looked  up,  but  let  me  go  alone  ; 
He  smelt  the  goose  and  wonder'd  why  he  didn't  get  a  bone. 

I  wander'd  over  every  field  and  fixed  the  gates  up  tight ; 
I  didn't  mean  to  have  it  said  the  place  was  not  left  right. 
I  counted  over  all  the  sheep  and  salted  all  the  stock, 
Then  look'd  into  the  smoke-house  and  mended  up  the  lock. 


32  Betsy  and  I  Are  One. 

Next,  I  redded  up  the  barn  and  looked  the  harness  over ; 
I  rubb'd  the  horses  down  right  clean  and  gave  them  corn 

and  clover. 
By  this  time  Bub  was  home  from  school,  and  bade  me  come 

to  tea, 
But  I  sent  word  to  Betsy  "  not  to  wait  for  me." 

I  call'd  upon  the  'squire,  as  previously  agreed, 

To  come  down  in  the  morning  and  see  us  sign  the  deed. 

When  I  got  back  'twas  pretty  late,  the  chores  had  all  been 

done  ; 
Betsy  and  Bub  were  gone  to  bed  and  I  was  left  alone. 

I  didn't  feel  quite  satisfied  that  I  was  doing  right, 
But  felt  too  proud  and  spunky  to  give  it  up  to-night. 
I  went  to  bed,  but  'twas  no  use,  I  couldn't  help  but  think  ; 
And  turnM  and  toss'd  and  roll'd  about,  but  couldn't  sleep 
a  wink. 

I  thought  upon  the  pleasant  days  we  had  when  first  we 

married, 

And  wonder'd  how  it  came  about  that  we  had  so  miscarried. 
How  day  and  night,  when  I  was  sick,  Betsy  was  at  my  bed  ; 
How  tenderly  she  nurs'd  me,  what  soothing  words  she  said, 
And  turn'd  away  to  hide  her  tears,  and  bath'd  my  aching 

head. 

I  thought  how  proud  I  once  had  felt  when  walking  at  her 

side, 

And  how  we  comforted  each  other  ivhen  the  baby  died. 
I  felt  as  hot  as  pepper  and  my  heart  set  up  a  throbbing, 
I  heard  a  noise,  and  listened — Betsy  was  a  sobbing! 

I  felt  a  tear  roll  down  my  face — the  day  was  just  a  break 
ing  ; 
I  got  right  up  and  look'd  abroad  ;  all  nature  was  awaking  ; 

The  birds  were  twitt'ring  in  the  trees,  a  haze  was  on  the 

river, 
And  everything  I  gaz'd  upon  look'd  beautiful  as  ever. 


Jletsy  and  I  Are  One.  33 

I  wished  we  both  could  live  there  still,  but  'twas  no  use  a 

trying, 

We'd  often  tried,  and  tried  in  vain,  to  stop  our  argufying. 
I  fed  the  horses,  did  the  chores,  and  run  the  buggy  out, 
And  when  I  saw  the  smoke  ascend,  knew  Betsy  was  about. 

I  call'd  to  Bub  to  bring  the  grease — he  star'd  with  all  his 

might — 
"  Why,  daddy,  don't  you  know,"  he  said,  "we  greas'd  the 

wheels  last  night." 

And  so  we  had,  but  I  forgot ;  my  head  was  almost  craz'd  ; 
Our  boy,  who  is  a  bright,  smart  lad,  look'd  puzzl'd  and 

amaz'd. 

• 

I  told  him  I  was  going  away — to  be  a  right  good  boy. 
'"Where  are  you  going  to,  dad?"  says  he  ;  says  I  "  to  Il 
linois." 

"  Breakfast  is  ready  !  "  Betsy  call'd,  and  I  was  ready,  too, 
To  hang,  or  drown,  or  shoot  myself,  I  felt  so  awful  blue. 

I  could  not  tell,  to  save  my  life,  when  I  shut  up  the  barn, 
Which  way  the  world  was  going  'round,  and  didn't  care  a 

darn . 

We  both  went  in — my  Sunday  clothes  I  saw  upon  a  chair, 
All  ready,  nicely  brushed  and  cleaned — Betsy  had  put  them 

there, 
And  on  them  laid  a  bunch  of  flowers,  tied  with  a  lock  of  hair. 

The  parlor  door  was  left  ajar — it  didn't  shut  with  ease  ; 
There,  as  I  caught  a  glance  within,  was  Betsy  on  her  knees. 
I  heard  her  ask  forgiveness  for  the  hasty  words  we'd  said ; 
That  God  would  bless  our  boy  and  pour  his  blessings  on 

my  head. 
3 


34  Betsy  and  I  Are  One. 

And  then  she  hid  her  face  and  wept ;  again  she  prayed  and 

sighed  ; 

I  couldn't  stand  it  longer,  but  knelt  down  by  her  side. 
And  as  we  pray'd,  and  kissed,  and  vowed,  ever  in  love  to 

dwell, 
What  perfect  peace  and  joy  we  felt,  no  mortal  tongue  can 

tell. 

And  so  instead  of  going  off  upon  the  railroad  track, 

I  clapp'd  the  saddle  on  the  mare  and  brought  your  papers 

back. 
"Wont  the  neighbors  laugh,"  say  you  ;  "be  hang'd  if  I 

can  tell," 
But  as  for  Mrs.  Grundy — why  let  her  go  to  h — ! 

I  didn't  mean  to  swear,  lawyer;  'tis  the  first  time  in  mv 

life; 
But  when  neighbors  will  be  meddling  and  stir  up  foolish 

strife, 

And  blow  the  flame  that's  kindling  to  part  a  man  and  wife, 
Till  the  heart  is  full  of  bitterness  and  you  feel  as  though 

you'd  bust, 
They're  taking-  part  with  Satan,  and  surely  -will  be  cuss'  d! 

Come  up  to  dinner,  lawyer,  and  bring  your  wife  along ; 
We'll  have  a  joyful  gathering  and  right  up  every  wrong. 
The    crops    are    looking    finely :    we're    having    splendid 

weather  ; 
My  heart's  brimful  of  happiness,  I'm  lightsome  as  a  feather. 

Betsy  and  I  will  gaily  sing  as  down  life's  hill  we  go, 
"  We'll  sleep  together  at  the  foot,  John  Anderson,  my  Jo." 
So  burn  the  papers,  lawyer,  our  argufying's  done, 
Come  \veal  or  woe,  in  life  or  death,  Betsy  and  I  are  one. 


Lines.  35 


LINES 

SUGGESTED  BY  READING  WILL.  CARLTON's  "OUT  OF  THE 
OLD  HOUSE,  NANCY,  INTO  THE  NEW." 

"  OUT  of  the  old  house  into  the  new  " 
Aye,  never  were  spoken  words^more  true, 
For  the  prince  and  the  peasant,  the  high  and 

the  low, 

All  must  out  of  their  dwellings  go. 
Some  are  tenants  a  single  day- 
Are  permitted  to  enter,  but  not  to  stay ; 
On  angels'  wings  they  take  their  flight, 
And  live  in  palaces  of  light. 
Some  remain  a  few  short  years 
'Mid  storm  and  sunshine,  hopes  and  fears  : 
The  Landlord  bids,  they  haste  away 
From  their  frail  tenements  of  clay. 
Others  for  four-score  years  possess 
A  dwelling  in  this  wilderness — 
The  underpinning  at  length  gives  way, 
The  joists  and  studding  go  to  decay  ; 
The  plaster  has  fallen  from  the  walls, 
Dreary  and  desolate  are  the  halls  ; 
The  windows  are  dim,  and  the  thatch  is  irone, 

O 

And  the  poor  old  building  stands  alone. 
Friend,  you  must  leave  ere  the  sun  is  set, 
Though  you  fondly  would  linger  a  little  yet. 
Aye,  all  must  go,  a  motley  crew, 
"  Out  of  the  old  house  into  the  new." 
Who  can  the  spirit's  flight  control? 
Where  is  the  homestead  of  the  soul  ? 


36  Ltnes. 

What  are  its  wants  along  the  road? 

How  will  it  furnish  its  new  abode? 

No  earthly  compass  can  point  the  way, 

No  earthly  staff  can  be  its  stay. 

All  our  dearest  earthly  treasures, 

All  our  sweetest  earthly  pleasures  ; 

Honor,  and  fame,  and  wealth,  and  power — 

All  must  be  left  in  that  dread  hour 

When  Asrael  bears  the  soul  away 

From  its  lov'd  tenement  of  clay. 

Yet,  if  thou  hast  been  good  and  true, 

Fear  not,  there  is  a  home  for  you 

In  those  bright  palaces  above, 

Where  all  is  harmony  and  love. 

No  moth  devours,  no  rust  corrodes, 

In  those  celestial  blest  abodes  ; 

There  care  and  sorrow  enter  not, 

And  the  woes  of  earth  are  all  forgot. 

On  wings  of  faith  the  soul  shall  rise 

And  claim  a  mansion  in  the  skies  ; 

Hope  shall  its  full  fruition  rind, 

And  charity  to  all  mankind 

(Bright  pattern  of  the  eternal  mind)  ; 

Those  heavenly  guests  who  made  their  stay 

In  thy  dwelling-house  of  clay — 

The  sweet  companions  of  thy  way 

While  on  earth  thy  footsteps  trod — 

Shall  guide  thee  to  thy  blest  abode 

In  the  Paradise  of  God. 


Dear    Willie.  37 


DEAR  WILLIE. 

AND  is  thy  gentle  spirit  fled, 
Dear  little  Willie  ?     Art  thou  dead  ? 
Must  I  no  more  behold  my  boy— 
His  father's  hope,  his  father's  joy? 
No  more  thy  little  nimble  feet 
Make  haste  to  meet  me  on  the  street? 
No  more  thine  arms  my  neck  entwine — 
Thy  little  cheek  be  press'd  to  mine? 
No  more  the  plaintive  voice  I  hear : 
"Father,  I  love  you — lie  down  here." 

Oh !  I  would  lay  me  by  thy  side, 

Sweet  child,  for  thee  I  would  have  died. 

Death,  did'st  thou  not  mistake  thy  mark — 

Thy  fatal  shaft  launch  in  the  dark, 

When  last  thv  poisoh'd  arrow  came 

And  pierc'd  my  child  and  I  remain? 

Must  the  green  young  plant  be  taken, 

And  the  old  tree,  which  storms  have  shaken, 

Still  rear  its  head  amid  the  wood, 

A  branchless  trunk?     Say,  is  it  good — 

Oh  !  is  it  wise,  or  just,  or  right, 

Fell  tyrant,  thus  to  shew  thy  might? 

The  "  bud  of  promise  *'  must  thou  have 
To  lie  beside  his  mother's  grave? 
Oh  !  that  my  soul  could  understand 
Why  the  Almighty's  dread  command 
Sent  the  "Pale  Archer"  to  destroy 
My  fondest  hopes  and  take  my  boy  ! 


38  Dear    Willie. 

Would  that  to  some  blest  saint  in  heaven 
The  kind  permission  were  but  given 
To  lift  the  veil  and  tell  me  why. 
Dear  Willie,  thou  wert  doom'd  to  die. 

A  sweet,  soft  voice  salutes  my  ear : 
"  Oh  !  William,  grieve  not ;  he  is  here 
With  me  in  heaven — here  to  dwell 
In  bliss  forever.     It  is  well." 
In  soft  response,  I  hear  an  infant  voice : 
"  Father,  my  happy  spirit  does  rejoice 
In  God,  my  Savior ;  here  I  dwell, 
Where  pain  and  death  are  not,  and  all  is  well." 

Then  be  it  so  ;  great  God,  thy  power  and  love 

I  own, 

And  prostrate  bow  before  thine  awful  throne. 
When  the  black  storm  is  bursting  on  my  head, 
•  And  all  my  dearest  earthly  joys  are  fled — 
Wife,  children,  mingled  with  the  silent  dead — 
Low  in  the  dust  my  helpless  soul  I  fling, 
And  of  thy  mercy  venture  still  to  sing. 
Though  sick  at  heart ,  yet  sweet  hope  remains, 
For  Death  is  conquer'd  where  Messiah  reigns. 
Thanks  be  to  God,  though  I  my  loss  deplore, 
Death  must  at  last  my  stolen  jewels  restore. 
Upheld  by  faith  in  thine  eternal  Son, 
Submissive  I  adore — my  God,  thy  -will  be  done. 


Sympathy — The  Last  Decade.  39 


SYMPATHY. 

OH  !  sympathy — resistless  force  ! 
Tell  me  from  what  mysterious  source 

Proceeds  thy  magic  power? 
Surely  thou  did'st  descend  from  heaven. 
The  dearest  boon  to  mortals  given 

In  sorrow's  dismal  hour. 

When  life  is  joyous,  sweet  and  bright, 
And  all  the  soul  is  steep'd  in  light, 

Thou  dost  thy  power  impart — 
Giv'st  perfect  bliss  without  alloy  ; 
Enchantress,  double  all  our  joy — 

With  rapture  fill  the  heart. 


THE  LAST  DECADE. 

THK  last  decade,  the  last  decade  !    Well,  let  it  come, 
A  little  more  of  earth,  and  then,  I'm  home. 
Yes,  three  score  years  and  ten';  that  is  the  span 
Which  God  in  wisdom  has  allotted  man  : 
Enough  to  taste  of  all  the  joys  of  earth  ; 
Enough  to  tit  him  for  his  heavenly  birth. 
And  plume  his  pinions  for  a  higher  Might, 
To  soar  aloft  'mid  fields  of  endless  light. 
But  can  it  be  that  sixty  years  have  pass\l 
Since  I  was  born?     Is  this  the  last 
Decade  of  earthly  care  and  joy? 


40  The  Last  Decade. 

Why,  'twas  but  yesterday  I  was  a  boy, 

Drinking  the  bliss  which  buoyant  childhood  yields  ; 

Chasing  the  butterflies  o'er  flowery  fields. 

Finding  the  earliest  violets  of  the  Spring  ; 

Or  with  my  comrades  at  the  rustic  swing 

'Neath  the  old  apple  tree,  whose  blossoms  shed 

A  mimic  snow-storm  on  my  hatless  head  ; 

Hunting  for  eggs  in  each  sequester'd  nook, 

Or  building  tiny  mill-dams  at  the  brook  ; 

Splashing  the  sparkling  waters  all  around, 

A  merrier  urchin  rarely  could  be  found. 

Each  season  had  its  own  time-honor'd  sport, 

And  what  is  strange  the  days  were  not  so  short 

As  they  are  now. 

The  golden  sun  hung  longer  in  the  west, 

Ere  'mid  the  gorgeous  clouds  he  sunk  to  rest. 

Time  trudg'd  along — childhood  and  youth  were  gone, 

And  then  at  length  I  numbered  twenty-one. 

Proud  manhood's  date — what  lofty  things 

Now  would  take  place,  in  my  imaginings. 

What  piles  of  wealth  I  would  accumulate. 

And  be  renown'd  among  the  good  and  great ! 

What  patriot  fire  glow'd  in  my  ardent  breast ; 

How  \vould  I  raise  the  lowly  and  oppress' d  ; 

Should  haughty  tyranny  o'erride  the  laws, 

Or  spurn  the  poor  man  and  his  righteous  cause, 

And  faithlessly  betray  a  people's  trust. 

How  quickly  should  the  despot  bite  the  dust. 

To  face  her  foes,  should  e'er  my  country  call, 

How  glorious  in  my  country's  cause  to  fall. 

Poetic  fancies  floated  through  my  brain  ; 

What  honor  would  it  be  could  I  obtain 

A  hundredth  part  of  Milton's  glorious  fame, 

And  thus  immortalize  my  humble  name  ? 

Oft  have  I  wander'd  o'er  the  dear  old  farm. 


The  Last  Decade,  41 

And  as  I  gaz'd  on  every  varied  charm 

Which  nature's  bounteous  hand  had  strewn  around 

(No  spot  so  dear — to  me  "'twas  holy  ground^ 

With  sympathy  my  soul  was  all  a-glowing, 

Heart  full  of  rapture,  eyes  with  tears  o'erflowing ; 

Ecstatic  feelings  !  sweet,  but  undetin'd — 

In  love  with  Nature,  God,  and  all  mankind. 

When  twilight  softly  stole  upon  the  scene, 

And  mingled  into  one  each  shade  of  green, 

Slowly  I  took  the  homeward  path  along, 

Enchanted  by  the  nightingale's  sweet  song. 

But  I  am  garrulous — farewell,  farewell, 

My  native  fields,  dearer  than  tongue  can  tell. 

Then,  urg'd  by  fate,  I  cross'd  the  rolling  sea, 

And  dwelt  in  this  fair  "  land  of  liberty  ;  " 

I  mingled  in  the  busy  haunts  of  men, 

In  hopes  the  "  almighty  dollar"  to  obtain  ; 

In  vain — Miss-fortune  (saucy  jade) 

Has  me  her  favorite  football  made. 

How  strangely  mutable  are  earthly  things ! 

Riches,  'tis  truly  said,  make  their  own  wings 

And  fly  awray.     It  is  not  wise 

To  build  on  anything  below  the  skies. 

My  fondest,  fairest,  youthful  hopes  now  seem 

The  wild  illusions  of  a  morning  dream. 

What  have  I  done  the  last  half  century? 

How  reads  my  record  in  the  Omniscient  eye? 

How  can  I  bear  the  awful  scrutiny? 

What  precious  years  to  sinful  wraste  have  run  ? 

What  duties  half  perform'd  or  not  begun? 

What  errors  and  what  follies  mar  the  page, 

Blotting  the  record,  even  to  old  age? 

And  time,  regardless  of  man's  earnest  cry 

To  stay  his  pace,  mocks  as  he  rushes  by. 

See  how  his  flaming  chariot  cleaves  the  sky. 


42  To    William  K- 


Then  what  remains  ?     The  past  is  gone  forever  ; 

Soon  shall  I  ford  death's  dark,  rolling  river. 

Nil  des-pcrandum  !    Onward  let  me  press 

With  double  diligence,  and  win  success. 

I  have  souls  to  train  ;  I  have  debts  to  pay  ; 

I  have  bread  to  win  from  day  to  day. 

I  must  gather  the  blossoms  ere  they  fade, 

Work!  (for  I  see  the  evening's  shade) 

Ere  my  bed  in  the  "  narrow  house  "  be  made  ; 

Hurrah  !  hurrah,ybr  the  last  decade! 


TO  WILLIAM  K- 


FRIEND  WILLIAM,  I  have  read  your  earnest  words, 
Written  while  looking  down  the  steep  decline 
To  where  the  western  sky  scarce  hides  from  view 
The  golden  gates  that  will  ere  long  swing  back 
To  give  you  entrance  to  a  better  land. 
And  I  can  well  believe,  however  much 
Of  all  the  past  seems  like  a  fruitless  task, 
That  there  awaits  you,  when  life's  work  is  done, 
Such  riches  as  the  world  can  never  buy. 
Honor,  and  wealth,  and  ease,  these  objects  all 
Of  man's  ambition,  and,  though  seldom  won, 
Less  seldom  yield  such  pleasure  as  our  hopes 
Portray.     The  highest,  purest  joys  of  earth 
Are  not  reveal' d  to  gaze  of  curious  eyes 
By  any  flimsy  trappings  pride  employs, 
And  are  known  only  to  the  loyal  few— 
They  may  be  sons  of  poverty  and  toil— 
Who  stand  down  close  beside  their  fellow  men 
And  feel  the  throbbings  of  their  aching  hearts. 
Your  way  has  been  along  the  lowly  vale, 


To   William  K- 


43 


Your  burdens  such  as  few  have  borne,  and  yet 

Your  couch,  though  made  of  sjraw,  is  softer  far 

Than  eider-down  when  purchased  at  the  price 

Of  unrequited  toil.     Your  coat,  threadbare 

For  years,  is  still  more  fitting  than  the  robes 

That  royalty  puts  on  by  trampling  down 

The  poor.     The  plain  gray  frock  worn  by  your  wife 

Is  more  becoming  to  the  pure  in  heart 

Than  India's  fairest  silks  to  her  who  wears 

Them  at  a  price — ah,  fearful  cost  !— 

That  sends  both  soul  and  body  down  to  hell. 

I've  stood,  friend  William,  in  the  halls  of  fame  ; 

I  know  how  mad  and  sad  ambition  is  ; 

I  know  how  hollow  and  profane  the  hearts 

Of  those  who  worship  at  the  shrine  of  wealth  ; 

I  know  the  silly-minded  butterflies 

Who  trick  themselves  in  fashion's  gaudy  guise ; 

I  know — saddest  of  all,  if  possible — 

The  solemn-visaged  crew  who  serve  the  Lord 

One  day  in  seven  to  rob  the  toiling  poor 

The  other  six  ;   and  I  would  rather  walk, 

Clasped  hand-in-hand,  with  her  who  loves  me  most, 

The  lowly  path  trod  by  the  Nazarine, 

Lending  a  helping  hand  to  those  in  want, 

With  kindly  sympathy  for  all  who  mourn. 

And  share  the  unbought  honors  of  their  love, 

Than  idly  wear  the  regal  crown  of  kings 

And  hear  the  hollow  plaudits  of  a  world. 

'Tis  only  feebly,  as  I  do  confess, 

That  I  have  held  the  faith  the  fathers  taught ; 

I'm  sick  of  ceremonials  and  creeds,- 

Of  craft,  and  cant,  and  smooth  hypocrisies  ; 

Of  finely-cushioned  pews,  prepared  for  saints. 

Carpeted  aisles  where  rough  feet  never  tread. 

Let  those  whose  wish  it  is  set  this  much  down 


44  To  A.  B.   C. 

Against  my  name  for  condemnation.     You, 
Who  know  me  well,  will  clasp  my  open  palm, 
Nor  fear  contamination  at  the  touch  ; 
And  if  your  faith  is  larger  grown  than  mine — 
If,  guided  by  the  crescent  or  the  cross, 
You  find  a  higher,  nobler  work  to  do — 
Still  you  will  hold  in  glad  remembrance  one 
Who  shared  the  sorrows  of  his  fellow  men, 

And  kept  a  loyal  heart  for  all  his  friends. 

A.  B.  c. 


TO  A.  B.  C. 

THANKS  for  your -kindly  greeting,  A.  B.  C. 

If  aught  on  earth  can  cheer  the  path  of  life, 
'Tis  surely  sacred  friendship's  sympathy, 

And  the  rich  treasure  of  a  bonnie  wife. 

True  that  I  tread  the  low,  sequestered  vale, 
And  dark  and  stormy  sometimes  is  the  way  ; 

Yet  ofttimes  music  floats  upon  the  gale, 

And  flowers  still  blossom,  though  my  footsteps  stray. 

"Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity,"  but  men  abhor  the 

nauseous,  bitter  cup  ; 

Nature  recoils,  and  would  not  take  a  sup, 
But  quaffs  with  eager  lip  and  sparkling  eye 
The  golden  bowl  of  fair  prosperity. 

"  There  is  a  destiny  that  shapes  our  ends, 

Rough  hew  them  as  we  may  "  (thus  writes  the  bard), 
But  wickedness  to  woe  and  ruin  tends, 
And  virtue  ever  is  its  own  reward. 


A  Dangerous  Accident.  45 

If  we  but  take  the  straight  and  narrow  way, 

It  matters  very  little  how  we  travel ; 
You  in  a  gilded  coach  with  trappings  gay, 

And  prancing  horses  tearing  up  the  gravel ; 
/,  in  my  one-horse  wagon,  made  to  carry 
Brooms  to  market,  walloping  old  Harry. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  WHILE  SUFFERING  FROM  A  DANGEROUS  ACCIDENT. 

FATHER,  I  lift  my  soul  to  Thee, 

Oh  hear  my  humble  cry ! 
Thou  only  know'st  my  destiny, 

'Tis  now  to  live  or  die. 

Oh  gracious  God,  for  full  forty  years 

My  life  thou  hast  preserved, 
Through  countless  storms  of  trials,  cares, 

What  mercy  undeserved. 

With  open  shears  see  Asrael  stand 

To  part  life's  feeble  thread  ; 
But  thy  command  can  stay  his  hand, 

Or  call  me  from  the  dead. 

The  Spirit  Land  is  full  in  sight — 

What  glories  I  behold  ! 
What  hosts  of  beings  rob'd  in  white, 

With  crowns  of  shining  gold. 

Farther  than  mortal  eye  can  reach 

O'er  the  celestial  lands, 
Innumerable  armies  stretch — 

God's  own  victorious  bands. 


46  A  Dangerous  Accident. 

And  oh,  how  light,  intensely  light, 
Around  your  lofty  throne, 

Where  high  in  glory  and  in  might, 
Sits  God's  beloved  Son. 

Now  victor  palms  are  waving  high, 
Now  swells  the  heavenly  minstrelsy, 

Each  ravish'd  soul  in  ecstacy, 
Proclaims  the  Savior's  victory. 

What  dear  lovd  forms  are  those  I  view  ? 

What  voices  do  I  hear? 
My  wife,  my  babes,  dear  Willie,  too, 

With  soft  and  curling  hair ; 

As  when  on  earth  with  smiles  so  sweet, 
He  seems  in  haste  to  come, 

With  outstretch'd  arms  and  nimble  feet, 
To  -welcome  father  home. 

That  angel  form  in  accents  mild 
Exclaims,  "Not  yet,  my  son, 

Yet  wait  awhile,  my  darling  child, 
His  work  is  not  yet  done. 

Thy  sisters  and  thy  brother  still 

Require  a  parent's  care, 
To  teach  them  God's  most  holy  will 

And  guide  their  footsteps  here.'"1 

Father,  enough!     No  more  I  ask 
(Nor  more  can  well  be  given), 

Than  when  I  have  perform'd  my  task, 
To  find  "A.- home  in  heaven. 


Morning,  47 


MORNING. 

SHRILL  chanticleer  proclaims  the  approach  of  day, 
And  Oberon's  band  have  ceas'd  their  fairy  dance  ; 

The  glimmering  stars  are  fading  fast  away, 
And  hide  their  heads  at  mighty  Sol's  advance. 

On  tip-toe  'tvvixt  the  mountain  and  the  sky, 
The  blushing  morn  now  meets  her  glorious  Lord, 

He  comes  supreme  in  beauteous  majesty, 
And  light  and  music  all  around  are  pour'd. 

Now  from  the  leafy  groves  and  dewy  fields 
Ten  thousand  grateful  notes  of  praise  arise  ; 

Nature  awake  its  joyful  tribute  yields 

To  Him  who  made  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  skies. 

Wake,  lordly  man — ye  sons  of  labor,  wake, 
With  vig'rous  arms  resume  your  toils  again  ; 

"  Shake  oft'  dull  sloth,"  as  the  strong  lions  shake 
The  sparkling  dew-drops  from  their  shaggy  mane. 

Awake,  ye  fair,  your  drowsy  couch  forsake  ; 
Pure  as  a  virgin's  soul  is  morn's  sweet  breath — 

Soft  as  a  maiden's  sigh  from  yonder  lake, 

The  blue  mist  rising  forms  a  graceful  wreath, 
And  half  reveals  the  crystal  wave  beneath. 

Wake  helpless  infancy  and  feeble  age 

(Types  of  the  opening  and  the  closing  day), 

And  as  the  sun  illumes  fair  nature's  page, 
Your  grateful  tribute  to  its  Author  pay. 

Each  opening  day  new  life  and  joy  imparts  ; 

His  love,  His  truth,  His  bounties  never  fail  ; 
Receive  the  incense  of  our  grateful  hearts, 

God  of  the  morning  ;  great  Creator,  hail  ! 


48  The   Conqueror. 


THE  CONQUEROR. 

YES,  the  dread  "  Conqueror"  is  come, 
Not  with  trumpet,  sword,  or  drum  ; 
Not  with  banners  waving  high, 
Not  with  shouts  that  rend  the  sky, 

Proclaiming  glorious  victory  ; 
Not  with  martial  plume  and  pride, 
Heroes  and  princes  by  his  side, 
While  gazing  crowds  still  raise  the  cry 
(Aw'd  by  the  lightning  of  his  eye)  : 

"  Ride  on  in  all  thy  chivalry, 
Thou  son  of  fame,  triumphantly  !  " 
Not  in  regal  pomp  and  state, 
Followed  by  the  rich  and  great, 
Nor  in  statesman's  borrow'd  power, 
Holding  his  office  by  the  hour, 
Or  crown'd  with  wit  or  learning's  bays, 
Or  poet's  or  musician's  praise — 
Thou  heedest  not  the  voice  of  fame, 
Thou  carest  not  for  scorn  or  shame — 
Thou  tramplest  on  the  crowns  of  kings 
Amid  thy  saucy  revelings  ; 
The  proud,  the  valiant,  and  the  wise 
Are  but  thy  common  sacrifice. 
The  priest,  the  sage,  the  young,  the  gay  ; 
At  thy  approach  their  homage  pay  ; 
So,  all  men  shudder  at  thy  power, 
Indomitable  conqueror  ! 
E'en  beauty's  self,  whose  beaming  eye 
Fills  the  lov'd  youth  with  ecstacy, 
Whose  faultless  form  and  glowing  charms 


The   Conqueror.  49 

The  coldest  heart  with  rapture  warms. 
With  soul  exalted,  pure,  refin'd, 
Good,  generous,  holy,  gentle,  kind 
(Bright  pattern  of  the  eternal  mind), 
Whose  power  is  felt  by  all  mankind — 
She,  when  thou  wav'st  thy  ebon  wand^ 
Falls  prostrate  at  thy  stern  command. 
No  more  the  muse  shall  sing  of  thee, 
Conqueror,  void  of  clemency  ; 
No  flowers  shall  strew  the  victor's  path 
Who  comes  in  cruelty  and  wrath  ; 
No  garland  shall  adorn  his  head 
Whose  name  fills  every  heart  with  dread. 
Yet  ere  the  tyrant's  kindling  rage 
O'ertake  thee  in  thy  pilgrimage, 
Haste !  weave  a  wreath  his  brow  to  bind — 
The  common  foe  of  all  mankind — 
The  nightshade  and  the  hemlock  twine 
With  every  poisonous,  withering  vine  ; 
With  widows'  tears  and  orphans'  cries, 
With  blighted  hopes,  and  fears,  and  sighs, 

And  all  life's  broken  sympathies. 
Hated  Conqueror!  take  the  wreath — 
It  fits  thee  well,  thou  monster!  Death  ! 


50  A  Brighter  Picture. 


A  BRIGHTER  PICTURE. 

(SUGGESTED  BY  READING  CARLTON'S  "OVER  THE  HILLS  TO  THE 
POOR-HOUSE.") 

"  OVER  the  hills  to  the  poor-house" 

Is  a  libel  on  our  race — 
A  picture  far  too  wicked 
For  the  poet's  pen  to  trace. 

Alas- !  poor  human  nature 

Is  bad  enough,  I  know, 
And  many's  the  wrong  committed, 

As  over  the  hills  we  go. 

We'll  paint  another  picture — 

Look  on  the  other  side  : 
See  loving  sons  and  daughters, 

A  poor  old  mother's  pride  ; 

Nancy,  and  Jane,  and  burly  John, 

Stand  by  the  widow's  chair, 
And  black-eyed  Sue,  with  her  two  boys, 

And  Tom  and  Ben  are  there. 

The  funeral  scene  has  just  been  closed — 

"  Father  "  has  left  the  stage  ; 
He  played  his  part  right  manfully, 

And  reach'd  Barzillia's  age. 

Now,  as  the  homestead  must  be  sold, 

Commenc'd  a  loving  strife. 
And  John,  the  oldest,  claim'd  the  right 

To  take  her  home  for  life. 


A  Brighter  Picture.  51 

But  Tom,  and  Ben,  and  Nancy,  too, 
Exclaim'd,  "that  should  not  be," 
And  black-eyed  Sue  and  Tane  declar'd 

*/  tj 

They'd  rights  as  well  as  he. 

'Mid  showers  of  tears  a  beaming  smile 

Lights  up  the  widow's  eyes, 
And,  as  she  half  forgets  her  woe, 

In  tones  of  love  she  cries  : 

"  God  bless  you  all !  may  heaven's  best  gifts 

Descend  on  every  head  ; 
God  bless  you  all,  my  children,  dear, 
The  living  and  the  dead." 

By  turns  I'll  spend  with  each  of  you, 

My  days  that  are  to  come, 
For  \vell  I  know  there  is  for  me 

In  all  your  hearts  a  home. 

And  so  'twas  fixed  ;  "  poor  mother"  went 

To  live  with  John  a  "  spell ;" 
Nancy  and  Jane  then  had  their  turn, 

Then  Sue,  at  "  Hazel  Dell." 

Benoni  was  a  bachelor, 

And  pass'd  his  days  with  Tom  ; 
"  She  must  stay  there  a  longer  time, 
For  they  were  two  to  one." 

The  children  counted  on  the  time 
When  "grandma"  would  be  there, 

And  when  she  came,  lugg'd  out  with  glee 
The  parlor  rocking-chair. 

What  lots  of  cunning  little  socks 

Came  out  of  grandma's  bag  ; 
How  nice  they  are,  and  wond'rously 

They  tit  each  little  leg. 


52  A  Brighter  Picture, 

And  there's  a  bigger  pair  for  Ben, 

Some  "  taffy"  and  a  dolly. 
"Just  look,  mamma  ;  look,  Uncle  Ben  ; 
Oh  goodee,  aint  it  jolly  !  " 

Thus  peacefully  she  pass'd  her  days, 
Nor  dreamt  of  growing  old  ; 

For  though  her  sun  on  earth  was  set, 
The  sky  was  ting'd  with  gold. 

And  so  the  good  old  lady  liv'd 
Her  childhood  o'er  again, 

'Till  seven  more  years  were  added 
To  her  three  score  years  and  ten. 

Then  Asrael  came  and  bore  her  off 

Beneath  his  sable  wing, 
To  dwell  in  that  bright,  happy  land 

Where  saints  with  angels  sing. 

And  now  the  mournful  funeral  group 
The  poor  remains  must  leave, 

And  tiny  hands  will  plant  sweet  flowers 
Around  dear  grandma's  grave. 

'T  is  well — oh  !  "  Young  America  !  " 

Take  heed  to  God's  command  : 
"  Honor  thy  parents,  that  thy  days 
Be  long  in  this  fair  land." 

And  when  th'  allotted  time  on  earth 
Thy  pilgrim  feet  have  trod, 

There'll  be  a  happy  gathering 
In  the  Paradise  of  God. 


To  My  Boy.  53 


TO  MY  BOY. 

THE  world  is  not  a  Paradise, 

Though  flowers  are  strewn  around, 

For  sin  and  death  have  entered  here, 
And  sighs  and  tears  abound. 

The  world  is  not  a  wilderness, 

Though  thorns  and  weeds  are  found, 

For  Christ  hath  lived  and  died  on  earth, 
And  lo  !  't  is  holy  ground. 

"  Put  off  thy  shoes  from  off  thy  feet," 

Bareheaded  walk,  with  trembling  joy  ; 
In  love  thy  fellow  pilgrims  greet, 
In  kindly  deeds  thy  hands  employ. 

Full  many  a  pang  shall  wring  thy  heart, 
And  many  a  joy  shall  gild  thy  days  ; 

In  sorrow  bravely  bear  the  smart, 
In  times  of  joy  give  God  the  praise. 

Ne'er  think,  though  humble  be  thy  lot, 
Thou  art  below  thy  Father's  care — 

His  promises  are  ne'er  forgot, 

And  he  has  "  number'd  every  hair/' 

God  and  his  angels  mark  thy  way  ; 

Life  is  probation — do  thy  best ; 
Strength  shall  be  equal  to  thy  day, 

And  thou  shalt  be  God's  welcome  guest. 


54  A  Neiv    Version  of  "  Yankee  Doodle.'" 


A  NEW  VERSION  OF  "YANKEE  DOODLE." 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  SIGNING  OF  THE  TREATY  OF  WASHINGTON. 

I'LL  tell  you  what's  the  matter,  boys, 

There's  lots  of  fun  and  glory, 
Uncle  Sam  has  been  and  gone 

And  married  Queen  Victoria. 

Bluff  Johnny  -Bull  was  there  in  state, 
.     And  gave  away  the  bride,  sir, 
And  Jonathan  was  there,  of  course, 
And  many  more  beside,  sir. 

Miss  Canada  was  at  the  feast, 

And  this  was  her  opinion  : 
"  'Twould  prove  a  very  happy  match"- 
Long  live  the  New  Dominion  ! 

Though  in  their  young  and  foolish  days, 

They  had  some  lovers'  quarrels, 
The  Anglo-Saxon  race  are  one 

In  liberty  and  morals. 

Let  the  old  wrong  and  grievance  sleep  ; 

'Tis  past,  we'll  never  mind  it ; 
Bury  the  hatchet,  boys,  so  deep 

That  Satan  can  not  find  it. 

Henceforth  in  peace  and  harmony, 

Together  let  us  pull,  sir  ; 
Hurrah  for  Brother  Jonathan, 

Hurrah  for  Johnny  Bidl,  sir. 


Brown.  55 


The  "  flag  that's  braved  a  thousand  years 

The  battle  and  the  breeze," 
The  "  stars  and  stripes,"  invincible, 

Alike  on  land  and  seas, 

Shall  float  together  round  the  world, 

A  glorious  beacon  light,  sir, 
To  nations  still  in  darkness, 

And  we'll  battle  for  the  right,  sir. 

Hosanna,  boys  !  our  Union  flag 

Shall  never  more  be  furled, 
Till  all  shall  hail  the  "Prince  of  Peace," 

And  love  embrace  the  world. 


JOHN  BROWN. 

ONCE  more  old  Winter  tramps  around, 
With  well-clad  feet  the  frozen  ground  ; 
A  chilling  blast  fierce  Boreas  blows, 
And  fills  the  vales  with"  drifted  snows. 
Fiercer  and  colder  comes  the  blast ; 

"  The  gloomy  night  is  gathering  fast." 
Now  let  us  to  our  cot  retire  ; 
Shut  close  the  door,  pile  up  the  fire  ; 
Come,  bring  a  chair  and  sit  you  down, 
And  let  us  talk  of  old  "John  Brown  ; " 
Of  "  old  John  Brown"  and  Harper's  Ferry- 
A  tale  it  is  mare  sad  than  merry. 

"  And  pray,  sir,  who  is  '  old  John  Brown?' 
Is  he  some  hero  of  renown?" 

"John  Brown,  sir,  was  an  outlaw  brave, 


56  John  Brown, 

But  now,  he  fills  a  traitor's  grave." 
Alexander,  Philip's  son, 
Many  battles  fought  and  won  ; 
Pompey  the  Great,  and  Caesar,  too, 
Mighty  kingdoms  overthrew, 
And  many  famous  men  beside, 
In  ancient  times  spread  ruin  wide  ; 
Princes  and  kings  before  them  bowed, 
Rivers  of  blood  around  them  flowed ! 
And  to  add  lustre  to  their  reigns 
Whole  nations  groan'd  in  servile  chains. 
They  gloried  in  a  conqueror's  name, 
And  thus  achieved  a  deathless  fame  ; 
And  we  have  modern  heroes,  too — 
Such  men  as  fought  at  Waterloo, 
In  Florida  and  Mexico, 
And  some  are  living  now,  I  trow ; 
But  old  John  Brown,  with  his  small  band, 
Has  built  his  fame  upon  the  sand  ! 
What  though  he  whipp'd  the  "  Chivalry," 
He  never  fought  for  slavery  ; 
He  rais'd  his  arm  to  free  the  slave, 
And  now  he  fills  a  traitor's  grave! 
"  Freedom  shriek'd  when  Kosciusko  fell ;  " 
Another  shriek,  old  man,  shall  ring  thy  knell ! 
'T  is  done — thy  dust  should  dwell 
With  valiant  rebels,  such  as  Tell ; 
With  Sidney,  Hampden,  Wallace,  too, 
Who  Freedom's  sword  all  freely  drew — 
Who  haughty  tyranny  defied  ; 
Who  fought,  and  bled  and  died — in  vain? 
No,  Liberty  shall  rise  again! 
John  Brown,  thou  fill'st  a  traitor's  grave, 
But  Freedom's  fag  shall  o'er  it  wave. 


77*6'  Nearer  the  Bone  the  Sweeter  the  Meat.         57 


THE  NEARER  THE  BONE  THE  SWEETER  THE 

MEAT. 

'Tis  jolly,  when  plenty  is  crowning  the  board, 
And  fortune  is  flinging  the  gifts  at  your  feet, 

And  time,  as  he  passes,  increases  your  hoard, 
But  the  nearer  the  bone  the  sweeter  the  meat. 

Satiety,  sickness  and  luxury  falls, 

Prosperity  often  is  only  a  cheat, 
But  when  sharpen'd  by  labor  keen  appetite  calls, 

If  there's  aught  on  the  bone  how  sweet  is  the  meat. 

I  ask  not  for  riches,  for  fame  or  for  power ; 

I  envy  no  mortal  his  splendid  estate  ; 
Content  in  a  cottage  with  peace  for  my  dower, 

Though  coarse  be  the  fare,  if  there's  something  to  eat. 

Near  seventy  years  I  have  feasted  on  life, 

And  the  chunk  that  is  left  is  pretty  close  to  the  bone, 

But  with  half  a  score  bairns  and  a  bonnie  sweet  wife, 
I  guess  I'll  feast  on  till  the  remnant  is  gone. 

And  then  to  crown  all,  there's  a  prospect  ahead, 

When  at  length  I  shall  burst  from  this  mortal  control, 

I  may  sit  down  and  rest  and  eat  heavenly  bread, 

"  Where  the  smile  of  the  I/ord  is  the  feast  of  the  soul." 


58  Six  feet  by   Two. 


SIX  FEET  BY  TWO. 

Six  feet  by  two,  six  feet  by  two — 
Well,  I  reckon  that'll  do  ; 
It  makes  a  roomy,  full-sized  grave, 
And  all  that  kings  and  heroes  have, 

Unless  they're  tall,  like  John  of  Gaunt, 
And  then  'tis  likely  that  they'll  want 
(Like  other  giant  men  of  yore) 
Twelve  or  fifteen  inches  more. 

But  't isn't  much,  at  any  rate, 
Man  wants  for  his  last  estate  ; 
Ten  thousand  acres  he  may  have, 
And  still  ten  thousand  acres  crave 

While  living.     When  the  hurly-burly's  o'er, 
And  the  grasping  hand  can  grasp  no  more, 
Then  a  very  little  spot 
Suffices  for  his  final  lot. 

Six  feet  by  two — there's  room  enough 
To  tumble  in  a  lot  of  stuff 
Beside  the  corpse  :    ambition,  pride, 
Honors,  for  which  in  vain  he  sighed  ; 

His  party  politics,  his  vote, 

His  seat  in  the  Wittenagemote, 

His  empty  wallet,  all  life's  ills, 

Doctors'  prescriptions,  gallipots  and  pills  ; 

His  broken  promises,  his  good  intention, 
And  lots  of  other  things  too  numerous  to  mention  ; 
Tumble  them  in,  there's  room  enough — 'twill  do  ; 
Aye,  ample  space  for  all,  in  six  by  two. 


Sunset — Response  to  "Sunset"  59 


SUNSET. 

WRITTEN   BY   MRS.    MARY  P.    KNOWLES. 

I  WATCH'D  the  sun  as  he  sunk  to  his  rest, 
Till  his  last  rays  tinted  the  golden  west ; 
And  still  I  gaz'd,  for  mv  soul  was  fraught 
With  deep  but  calm  and  solemn  thought. 

I  thought  of  the  brightness,  glory  and  power 
Of  his  morning  beams  and  at  mid-day  hour, 
And  now,  when  nobly  his  course  he  had  run, 
Gently  retir'd,  for  his  work  was  done ; 

And  a  prayer  arose  within  my  breast : 
"  My  God,  thus  peacefully  may  I  rest 
When  I  have  fought  the  fight  of  faith, 
Commending  my  soul  to  thee  in  death  ; 

"  More  glorious,  then,  again  shall  I  rise 
To  join  the  seraphic  choir  in  the  skies, 
And  in  one  everlasting  day  shall  raise 
Sweet  songs  to  my  great  Redeemer's  praise." 


RESPONSE  TO  "SUNSET." 

BY   W.   KXOWLES. 

YES — let  the  hallelujahs  rise 

And  fill  with  joyful  praise'  the  skies  ; 

Another  saint  has  gone  to  rest, 

Her  great  Redeemer's  power  confess'd. 

Oh  sing  "The  Conqueror"  again, 
He  whom  the  tyrant  could  not  chain  ; 
Who  liv'd,  who  died,  who  rose  for  thee, 

And   k'  captive  led  captivity  !  " 


60          Lines  Written  on  Board  the  Steamship  Italy. 

When  I  have  passed  the  stormy  sea 
Of  life  and  death,  dear  Mary,  say, 
Oh  is  there  not  a  harp  for  me? 
May  I  not  join  the  heavenly  lay? 

Time  passes  on  with  rapid  wing, 
And  soon  my  warfare  will  be  done, 
The  evening  past  with  thee,  I'll  sing 
The  glories  of  the  "  Risen  Sun  !  " 


LINES 

WRITTEN    ON    BOARD    THE    STEAMSHIP    ITALY    DURING    A 
VOYAGE    TO    ENGLAND. 

Ho,  for  England  !  gaily  steer 
Our  gallant  ship  across  the  sea ; 

Ho,  for  England  !  England,  dear, 
Land  of  my  nativity. 

Half  a  life-time  has  gone  by 

Since  I  left  old  Albion's  shore  ; 
Ho,  for  England  !  ere  I  die 

.1  shall  greet  old  friends  once  more. 

"  Ship  about !  "  I  hear  their  voices 

Floating  on  the  western  wind  ; 
"  Mother,  when  is  father  coming? 

Why  did  he  leave  us  behind? 

A  dozen  silver  cords  are  fasten' d 
To  my  heart,  and  draw  me  back  ; 

Helmsman,  put  the  ship  about! 
Captain,  take  another  tack  I 


Lines  Written  on  Board  the  "  Wyoming''  61 

All  in  vain  !  our  good  ship  steers 

Onward,  eastward,  o'er  the  main  ; 
I  must  see  old  England's  shore 

Ere  I  can  get  back  again. 

O  Thou,  who  rulest  all  creation  ; 

At  whose  command  the  waves  are  still ; 
Give  me  grace,  and  strength,  and  wisdom — 

Give  submission  to  Thy  will. 

Bless  the  wife  thy  goodness  gave  me, 
Bless  the  children  thou  hast  given ; 

If  we  meet  no  more  on  earth, 
May  I  greet  them  all  in  heaven. 

Ho  for  England  !  quickly  steer 

Our  gallant  ship  across  the  main  ; 
Let  me  grasp  the  hands  of  friends, 

Then  swiftly  bear  me  home  again. 


LINES 

WRITTEN    ON    BOARD    THE    "WYOMING,"    ON    MY    PASSAGE 
FROM    ENGLAND. 

ONCE  more  our  ship  the  ocean  braves, 
Again  I  ride  the  crested  waves  ; 
Westward  we  go,  away,  away  ! 
To  hail  fair  young  America. 
Thou,  who  controllest  earth  and  sea, 
Ruler  of  man's  destiny, 
Guide  us  through  the  ocean's  foam  ; 
Let  me  taste  the  joys  of  home  ; 
Press  to  my  heart  my  bonnie  wife 
And  children  dear,  mv  second  life. 


62  An  "  OJd,  Old   Talc"   (Tail?). 

"  From  every  stormy  wind  that  blows, 
From  every  swelling  tide  of  woes, 
Keep  them,  O  !  keep  them,  King  of  Kings  ! 
Beneath  thy  own  almighty  wings." 
I  love  the  vales  that  lie  between 
My  native  hills  of  living  green  ; 
I  love  her  pastures  and  her  fields, 
Each  simple  plant  the  woodland  yields — 
Her  rocks,  her  rivers  "and  her  soil ; 
Her  blooming  daughters,  sons  of  toil ; 
Her  quaint  old  homesteads,  castle  halls  ; 
Her  ruin'd  ivy-mantled  walls, 
And  thousand  other  beauties  round, 
That  make  it  all  enchanted  ground. 
I  love  her  cosy,  rustic  bowers, 
The  graceful  ferns  and  fragrant  flowers  ; 
I  love  her  green,  secluded  lanes  ; 
I  love  her  ancient,  sacred  fanes  ; 
I  love  the  hearts  that  mingle  there 
In  grateful  praise  and  fervent  prayer. 
England,  farewell !     The  mighty  spell 

That  binds  me  to  my  native  land — 
Home  of  the  free — can  only  be 

Dissolved  \)y  death's  all-potent  wand. 


AN  "OLD,  OLD  TALE"  (TAIL?). 

WRITTEN    AT    THE    REQUEST    OF    A    "PRINTER'S    DEVIL.' 
DEDICATED  TO  "  THE  FUNNY  MEMBER  FROM  NEW  YORK." 

The  Devil  ask  for  poetry  ! 

Why,  what  a  strange  request  is  this  ! 
Harmonious  numbers  can  not  pierce 

The  bottomless  abvss  ! 


An  "  Old,   Old  Tale"  (Tail?).  63 

There  universal  discord  reigns, 

And  naught  but  sounds  of  woe  resound  ; 

Horror,  and  grief,  and  wild  despair 
Fill  all  the  dark  profound. 

The  "light  of  other  days,"  alas  ! 

They  ne'er  shall  know  again, 
Who  fought  with  Satan  and  who  share 

His  never-ending  pain. 

While  thus  half  slumbering  by  the  fire, 

I  rnus'd  the  matter  o'er  ; 
I  heard,  or  perhaps  I  dreamt  I  heard, 

A  knocking  at  the  door. 

Some  friend,  I  thought,  for  leave  to  enter, 

Need  not  be  repeated  ; 
Before  I  well  could  say  "  come  in," 

The  gentleman  was  seated. 

He  blandly  smil'd,  and  really  seem'd 

A  fascinating  creature  ; 
He  knew  me  well,  and  seem'd  as  though 

He  knew  all  human  nature. 

He  glibly  talk'd  of  politics  ; 

How  liberty  is  bought  and  sold  ; 
Of  steam,  of  commerce,  and  of  ships, 

Of  printers  and  of  gold. 

He  asked  "  what  news  there  was  in  town?" 

Any  cases  of  small-pox? 
If  corn  and  pork  was  up  or  down, 

And  when  we  last  had  seen  Sam  Cox. 

I  thought  I'd  seen  his  face  before, 

But  could  not  recollect  his  name, 
And  to  inquire  I  still  forbore. 

But  merelv  asked  him  "  whence  he  came?" 


64  An  "  Old,   Old  Talc"  (Tail?}. 

"  Why,  up  the  river,  my  dear  sir, 

•Right  from  the  Gulf  of  Mexico." 
(And  then  the  fire  began  to  stir) 

"I  don't  much  like  your  frost  and  snow." 

"  Cuba's  the  place  for  me,"  he  cried, 
"  It  suits  my  constitution  well." 

"  Indeed,"  said  I,  "if  you've  been  there 
Perhaps  you  have  some  news  to  tell?  " 

Says  he  (and  gave  a  knowing  wink), 
"There's  something  brewing  in  the  air  ; 

(And  then  I  heard  the  money  chink) 

They  best  succeed,  you  know,  who  dare." 

Who  cares  for  Russia,  France  or  Spain, 
Or  poor  old  silly  Johnny  Bull  ? 

We've  licked  him  twice,  and  can  again — 
Aye,  give  them  all  a  belly-full ! 

"  Remember,  sir,"  I  just  began  ; 

"Ahab  of  old  and  Jezebel— 
"  We  -want  it,  sir!"  he  thunder 'd  out ; 

"And  that's  our  motto,  sir,  in  hell" 

I  started  and  cast  down  my  eyes, 
And  as  he  turn'd  his  chair  about, 

I  saw  beneath  his  ample  cloak 
An  ugly  cloven  foot  stick  out. 

My  pulse  stood  still,  and  o'er  my  heart 
There  crept  a  cold  and  mortal  dread. 

For  as  I  rais'd  my  eyes  again, 

Lo,  horns  were  growing  on  his  head ! 


Sequel  to  "An   Old,    Old  Talc."  65 

Next  a  huge  pair  of  wings  I  spied  ; 
"  Satan,  avaunt !  "  I  frenzied  cried  ; 
At  once  the  door  flew  open  wide. 
He  darted  forth  and  clapped  his  wings. 
And  high  into  the  air  he  springs. 

Then  through  the  darkness  of  the  night 
( His  forked  tail  stuck  out  so  bright 
I  watch'd  him  by  its  lurid  light), 

His  fiery  course  he  kept  right  on 

In  a  bee-line  for  Washington. 


SEQUEL  TO  "AN  OLD,  OLD  TALE." 

RAP-TAP-TAP-TAP!     "  Oh,  Lord  !     Who's 

there?" 

Cried  I,  as  I  kick'd  down  my  chair — 
For  I  had  nervous  grown  of  late, 
Had  nail'd  a  horse-shoe  on  my  gate, 
And,  at  th'  approach  of  candle-light, 
Barr'd  every  door  and  window  tight, 
To  keep  out  ugly  visitors.  Rap  !  tap  !  "Who 

knocks?" 

"  A  traveler,  sir  ;  your  friend,  Sam  Cox- 
Open  the  door,  good  sir,  I  pray." 
I  did  so,  just  a  little  way, 
And  look'd  him  down  from  top  to  toe, 
To  see  if  all  was  right,  you  know. 
Then  let  him  in,  and  took  his  hat, 
Placed  him  a  chair,  and  down  he  sat. 
"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Samuel  : 
I  hope  your  family  is  well." 


66  Sequel  to  "An   Old,   Old  Talc" 

"  They  were,  sir,  I  rejoice  to  say, 
When  I  left  them  yesterday." 

"Pray,  what's  the  news  in  Washington? 
How  is  Congress  getting  on?  " 

"  Well,  there's  not  much  doing  there, 
Or  else  I  should  not  now  be  here  ; 
In  fact,  there  is  so  much  division 
We  seldom  come  to  a  decision  ; 
The  country's  almost  at  a  stand  ; 
To  prosper,  sir,  we  must  expand. 
I  want  my  namesake,  '  Uncle  Sam,' 
To  take  another  little  farm  ; 
There's  a  snug  one,  almost  in  view, 
And  full  of  '  likely  niggers,'  too  ; 
The  soil  and  climate's  very  fine, 
And  then  the  water-power  is  prime  ; 
Besides,  they  have  the  'sweetest  town'' 
The  '  setting  sun  '  e'er  shone  upon  ; 
Indeed,  sir,  'tis  a  fine  estate— 
We  must  have  that  at  any  rate. 
You  recollect,  some  years  ago, 
We  got  a  slice  of  Mexico  ; 
Decidedly  it  would  be  best 
That  we  should  soon  have  all  the  rest ; 
I  hope,  too,  at  no  distant  day, 
We  shall  have  South  America  ; 
Our  energies  must  have  more  play — 
We  can't  be  cramp'd  up  in  this  way." 

"  I  think,  sir,"  I  rejoin'd,  "  that  now 
We  have  more  land  than  we  can  plow, 
And  if  we  make  our  farm  so  wide 
We  can  not  fence  it  well  outside, 
And  as  our  friends  don't  want  to  sell, 
Pray,  don't  you  think  'twould  be  as  well 
To  improve  what  we've  already  got, 


The  Flag  of  Our  Fathers.  67 

And  be  contented  with  our  lot? 

The  fable  says  that  '  Once  a  dog, 

Crossing  a  stream  upon  a  log, 

With  a  piece  of  meat  so  nice  and  fat '  " — 
"Tut,  tut !  don't  bore  me,  sir,  with  that ; 

You  certainly  must  be  a  fool — 

One  of  the  '  old  fogy '  school ; 

But  I  must  go,  'tis  getting  late — 

My  animal  is  at  the  gate." 

Thus  ended  all  our  social  chat, 

For  up  he  rose  and  took  his  hat, 

Button'd  his  coat  and  out  he  went ; 

I  follow'd,  out  of  compliment. 

Soon  as  I  saw  his  "  creature's  "  head  : 
"What!  Do  you  ride,  Old  Nick?"  I  said. 
"Thereby  hangs  a  TAIL,"  cried  he, 

And  jump'd  aboard  right  merrily  ; 

A  smell  of  brimstone  rose  around — 

I  heard  a  pair  of  wings  resound — 

I  saw  them  fly  before  the  gate, 

My  friend  astride  thejfery  tail; 

But  if  they  went  to  heaven  or  hell, 

Good  people,  it  is  hard  to  tell. 


THE  FLAG  OF  OUR  FATHERS. 

THE  glor  ous  old  flag  of  our  fathers 

Has  triumph'd  on  land  and  on  sea  ; 
Beneath  its  broad  shadow  there  gathers 
The  hosts  of  the  brave  and  the  free. 
The  glorious  old  flag  of  our  fathers, 
The  glorious  old  flag  of  our  fathers, 
The  glorious  old  flag  of  our  fathers 
Forever ! 


68  The  Flag  of  Our  Fathers. 

When  tyrants  once  sought  to  enslave  us. 

And  root  up  fair  liberty's  tree, 
Our  sires  shed  their  life-blood  to  save  us, 

And  hoisted  the  flag  of  the  free. 
The  glorious  old  flag,  etc. 

Hosannas  ascended  to  heaven, 

When  the  stars  and  the  stripes  were  unfurl'd  ; 
A  new  constellation  had  risen 

To  bless  and  illumine  the  world. 
The  glorious  old  flag,  etc. 

No  poet  can  sing  half  its  glories, 
The  pride  of  the  wise  and  the  just ; 

But  robbers,  and  traitors,  and  tories, 
Would  trail  the  old  flag  in  the  dust. 
The  glorious  old  flag,  etc. 

The  nations  with  wonder  are  gazing, 
And  despots  are  pale  with  affright ; 

But  liberty's  fire  is  still  blazing, 

And  our  banner's  a  beacon  of  light. 
The  glorious  old  flag,  etc. 

March  on,  and  your  children  will  bless  you  ; 

Brave  freemen,  march  on  in  your  might ; 
March  forward  and  gallantly  rescue 
The  emblem  of  truth  and  of  right. 
Hurrah  for  the  flag  of  our  fathers  ! 
The  glorious  old  flag  of  our  fathers 
The  glorious  old  flag  of  our  fathers, 
Forever ! 


Lines  on  a  Little  Child.  69 


LINES 

ON  HEARING  A  LITTLE  CHILD  EXCLAIM  IN  HER  SLEEP, 
"THOU  GOD  SEE'ST  ME." 

YES,  my  sweet  child,  thy  Heavenly  Father 

Sees  th.ee  still ;  His  omniscient  eye 

Beholds  thee  in  the  darkness  of  the  night 

As  in  the  blaze  of  day.     Ere  yet  thy  infant  tongue 

Could  lisp  His  sacred  name  ;  ere  yet 

Thy  soft,  dark  eye  beheld  the  dawning  light ; 

Ere  yet  thy  tiny  limbs  were  molded  into  form, 

Were  all  thy  members  written  in  His  book. 

He  who  bade  the  glorious  sun  perform  his  daily  task  ; 

Who  hung  the  silver  moon  aloft  in  heaven  ; 

Who  counts  the  stars  and  calls  them  by  their  names  ; 

He  saw  thee  coming  in  the  course  of  time, 

And  made  thee  also  for  his  glory.     O,  eternal  God, 

Imprint  upon  her  young  and  tender  mind, 

In  characters  unfading  as  thy  love, 

This  awful  truth  :  that  Thou  art  everywhere. 

Thy  power,  thy  wisdom,  and  thy  goodness 

Fill  the  universe.     "  There  is  no  spot 

Above,  around,  beneath,  where  Thou  art  not." 

Thou  ridest  on  the  whirlwind's  furious  blast, 

And  every  balmy  breeze  is  full  of  Thee, 

Thou  omnipresent  God  !     Oh,  bless  my  child  ; 

Look  down  in  pity  on  her  tender  age, 

And  shield  her  helpless  head  from  every  harm. 

How  calm  and  sweet  she  sleeps, 

Unconscious  of  the  raging  storm  without. 

The  rushing  wind  rocks  our  frail  tenement, 

The  dashing  rain  descends, 


70  To  Maggie. 

The  rolling  thunder  shakes  the  solid  hills, 

The  lightning's  flash  plays  on  her  infant  features, 

And  her  ruby  lip  converts  it  to  a  smile. 

Oh  thus  in  after  life,  when  trouble  comes,  when 

storms  arise 
(For  all,  alas  !  of  Adam's  fallen  race  must  taste 

the  bitter  cup), 

May  all  be  calm  within — hallow  each  thought ; 
Teach  her  to  live  as  ever  in  thy  sight ; 
And  when  her  earthly  pilgrimage  is  past, 
Then  send  some  bright,  celestial  messenger 
To  bear  her  ransom'd  spirit  home  to  Thee. 


TO  MAGGIE. 

DEAR  MAGGIE,  partner  of  my  life, 
My  pretty  little  winsome  wife, 

May  light  along  thy  pathway  shine  ; 
Long  may  you  live  in  health  and  peace  ; 
As  years  roll  on  your  joys  increase, 

And  richest  blessings  aye  be  thine. 

Much  happiness  is  often  sold 
For  paltry  heaps  of  shining  gold  ; 

Yet  may'st  thou  ever  have  enough 
To  ward  off  want,  and  something  more 
To  aid  the  helpless,  suffering  poor; 

Well  used  'tis  mighty  handy  stuff'. 

May  friends  prove  constant  and  sincere, 
And  drop  a  sympathizing  tear, 

If  sorrow  should  your  heart  invade  ; 
And  may  that  power  be  thy  defense 
Whose  goodness  and  omnipotence 

Is  over  all  His  works  displayed. 


To  the  Ladies  of  the  Bible  Society.  71 

In  God's  own  garden  nourished, 
The  dews  of  heaven  upon  her  head  ; 

Secure  from  mildew,  blight  and  cold, 
Our  little  cherub  may'st  thou  see 
(Your  darling,  sweet  epitome), 

Like  some  fair  flower  its  leaves  unfold. 

And  when  we  part,  as  part  we  must 
(For  dust  will  claim  its  kindred  dust), 

And  up  to  God  our  spirits  yield  ; 
When  the^  great  Master  views  his  land, 
And  the  strong  reapers  ready  stand 

To  gather  in  his  harvest  field  ; 

May  all  be  ready,  ripe  and  sound, 
Each  sheaf  an  angel's  arm  surround, 

And  borne  with  joyful  songs  on  high 
Among  the  good  sheaves  gone  before, 
Be  placed  (a  rich  and  precious  store) 

In  God's  own  garner  in  the  sky. 


TO  THE  LADIES  OF  THE  BIBLE  SOCIETY 

SISTERS,  forward  !  open  wide 

The  gates  of  mercy  to  mankind  ; 

Forward  !  till  the  mighty  tide 
Of  Adam's  race  salvation  find. 

Lift  up  your  eyes  ;    behold,  the  field 
Is  broken  by  the  Plowman's  hand  ; 

Haste,  sow  the  seed,  for  soon  'twill  yield 
Rich  harvests  throughout  every  land. 


On  the  Death  of  Miss  M.  Henthorn. 

Lo  !  where  China's  myriads  dwell, 

And  Christian  priests  have  scarcely  trod- 

Empire  of  the  powers  of  hell— 

What  countless  idols  mock  our  God  ! 

See  that  fond,  fanatic  mother 
Bending  over  Ganges'  stream  ; 

Her  drowning  babe  the  waters  cover  ! 
Heard  ye  not  its  dying  scream? 

Where  Ham's  degraded  children  rove, 
Land  of  the  poor  and  helpless  slave, 

Send  out  the  messengers  of  love, 
And  tell  them  "Jesus  came  to  save." 

O'er  many  a  wide  and  fertile  region 

Satan  holds  despotic  sway  ; 
Soldiers  of  Immanuel's  legion, 

Tear  his  impious  crown  away ! 

Sisters,  send  the  heavenly  manna 
To  the  earth's  remotest  bound, 

Till  one  joyful,  loud  hosanna 

Rolls  the  ransom'd  world  around. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MISS  M.  HENTHORN. 

RELEAS'D  from  pain,  from  sorrow  free, 
Peaceful  thy  hallow' d  dust  is  sleeping  ; 

Thy  spirit's  in  eternity, 

Safe  in  thy  mighty  Savior's  keeping. 

Then  mourn  we  not  thy  happy  state, 

Though  memory  still  delights  to  cherish 

Deep  in  her  heart,  with  fond  regret, 

Thy  name,  thy  love,  which  ne'er  can  perish. 


To  a  Lady.  73 

Though  death  has  power  now  to  sever 
The  strongest  ties  that  bind  the  soul, 

Can  he  keep  in  chains  forever 

One  atom  'neath  his  dark  control? 

No,  ere  long  his  dark  dominions 

Light  shall  enter  ;  then  shall  rise 
God's  living  saints,  with  flutt'ring  pinions 

Soaring  upward  to  the  skies. 


TO  A  LADY. 

AND  dost  thou  ask  another  lay? 

Indeed,  I  can  not  write  to-day  ; 

My  heart  is  sad,  my  muse  is  mute, 

My  harp's  unstrung,  my  simple  lute 

Is  out  of  tune.     Oh  !  who  can  sing 

When  the  heart's  last  hopes  are  withering? 

Can  nectar  from  the  upas  flow? 

Is  poetry  the  child  of  woe? 

Can  the  strong  eagle  soar  away, 

And  brave  the  blazing  god  of  day 

With  crippled  wings?     Nay,  lady,  nay. 

Go,  ask  the  happy,  ask  the  gay ; 

Bid  them  strike  the  golden  lyre, 

Whose  souls  are  full  of  youthful  fire  ; 

Whose  hearts,  exulting  in  their  gladness, 

Have  never  known  an  hour  of  sadness  ; 

To  whom  the  world  is  fair  and  bright 

With  promises  of  fresh  delight ; 

Or  ask  the  talented  and  wise, 

Who  scorn  the  earth  and  seek  the  skies —  , 

They  can  tell  of  the  joys  above, 


74  To  a  Lady. 

Where  all  is  harmony  and  love  ; 
Where  trouble  and  sorrow  enter  not, 
And  the  woes  of  earth  are  all  forgot ; 
But  ask  not  me,  whose  sun  is  set, 
Though  here  in  life  I'm  lingering  yet ; 
Cast  shipwreck'd  on  Time's  rocky  shore, 
The  surging  billows  round  me  roar. 
Oh,  that  the  winds  that  o'er  me  sweep 
Would  rock  my  weary  soul  to  sleep  ! 
Life  and  its  dreams  will  soon  be  o'er, 
Few  will  the  broken  lyre  deplore — 
Fair  lady,  I  can  write  no  more. 

Wake,  my  slumbering  muse,  once  more,  and  bring 

Thy  sweetest  song,  for  Mary  bids  thee  sing. 

Oh,  for  some  wand'ring  minstrel's  magic  art, 

To  touch,  to  soften,  and  to  melt  the  heart ! 

To  bid  the  wounded  spirit  seek  relief 

In  rapturous  tears,  and  taste  the  "joy  of  grief!" 

Farewell,  ye  youthful  dreams  of  earthly  bliss — 

The  world's  illusions  are  not  happiness. 

Ye  empty,  airy  bubbles,  which  decoy 

Poor  foolish  man,  ye  have  no  lasting  joy. 

Oh  !  what  are  glory,  honor,  riches,  power? 

The  fleeting  playthings  of  a  fleeting  hour ; 

Yes,  beauty,  love,  and  sacred  friendship,  too, 

Are  evanescent  as  the  morning  dew ; 

Like  wither'd  flowers,  pluck'd  in  their  sweetest 

bloom, 

They  strew  his  cheerless  pathway  to  the  tomb  ; 
Their  fairest  promise  melts  in  empty  air, 
And  leaves  him  naught  but  heart-corroding  care. 
But  hold  !  I  hear  a  gentle  spirit's  voice, 
In  sweetest  accents,  bid  me  still  rejoice  ; 
Delicious  odors  are  diffused  around, 


On  the  Death  of  Horace  Greeley.  75 

And  the  glad  earth  appears  like  Eden's  ground  ; 
A  sweet  enchantment  o'er  the  senses  steals, 
And  lo  !  the  parting  clouds  her  form  reveals — 
See  !  see  !  the  dear  companion  of  my  youth, 
Bright  as  a  seraph,  beautiful  as  truth ; 
See,  how  she  smiles,  and  points  me  to  the  skies, 
And  bids  me  still  the  ills  of  life  despise. 

Oh,  blessed  Hope  !  sweet  child  of  heaven, 

That  bears  our  souls  on  high  ; 
Thou  richest  boon  to  mortals  given 

Beneath  the  changing  sky  ; 

Reviving  as  the  vernal  wind, 

Thou  art  the  breath  of  life, 
And  balm  of  every  wounded  mind 

Engaged  in  mortal  strife. 

Thou  speak' st  from  out  the  raging  storm  : 

"  Fear  not,  for  I  am  here  !  " 
Though  tempest  veil  the  rainbow's  form, 

The  promise  still  is  there. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HORACE  GREELEY. 

WEEP,  freemen,  weep  around  his  grave, 
Defender  of  the  helpless  slave, 
Who  for  humanity  dared  brave 

The  Southern  Chivalry. 
All  who  love,  and  all  who  hate  ; 
The  rich,  the  poor,  the  mean,  the  great, 
'Tis  written  in  the  book  of  Fate, 

Inexorable  terms. 


76  Penitential. 

The  master  and  his  crouching  slave, 
The  trembling  coward  and  the  brave 
Are  destined  to  a  common  grave  ; 

All,  all  are  food  for  worms. 
But  justice,  truth  and  liberty, 
Those  glorious  daughters  of  the  sky, 
The  foes  of  sin  and  slavery, 

Are  born  of  immortality. 
Thus  trebly  arm'd,  each  freeman's  soul 
Spurns  e'en  the  tyrant,  Death's,  control, 
And  Greeley's  name,  high  on  the  roll, 

Shall  never  die. 


PENITENTIAL. 

WRITTEN    IN    A    TIME    OF    AFFLICTION. 

OH,  Thou  who  didst  the  heavens  create 

By  Thy  almighty  word  ; 
At  whose  command  the  rolling  world 

In  beauty  first  appeared  ; 

Whose  glory  fills  the  universe, 
Whose  wisdom  reigns  o'er  all, 

In  love  arid  goodness  infinite, 
Hear  me,  on  Thee  I  call. 

Eternal  source  of  light  and  life, 

Oh,  lend  a  list'ning  ear, 
Nor  let  my  sins  provoke  thy  wrath 

To  cast  away  my  prayer. 

In  deep  humility  I  come, 

Thy  judgments  I  confess 
I  well  deserve,  though  ten-fold  more, 

By  my  unworthiness. 


To  Mrs.  Susan  Morehouse.  77 

Yet  now,  I  pray  thee,  stay  thy  hand, 

Withhold  the  uplifted  rod  ; 
Have  mercy  on  my  guilty  soul, 

And  spare  me,  O,  my  God. 

Oh,  pardon  me  for  Jesus'  sake, 

Thy  well  beloved  son, 
Who  triumph'd  over  sin  and  death 

And  man's  salvation  won. 

And  may  the  remnant  of  my  days 

Be  in  thy  service  pass'd  ; 
Thy  spirit  guide  me  safely  home 

To  thy  abode  at  last. 


TO  MRS.  SUSAN  MOREHOUSE, 

ON    HER    EIGHTIETH    BIRTHDAY. 

THE  Lord  of  life  hath  been  thy  constant  stay, 

And  brought  thee  to  thy  four  score  years  to-day  ; 

Ev'n  from  the  outset  of  thy  pilgrimage, 

His  love  is  written  on  life's  every  page. 

When  youth,  and  health,  and  joy  were  all  thine  own, 

His  smiling  presence  did  thy  blessings  crown  ; 

When  sorrow  came,  in  sad  bereavement's  hour. 

His  grace  sustained  thee  with  almighty  power ; 

In  all  the  trials  and  conflicts  of  thy  life, 

Led  thee  triumphant  through  the  arduous  strife  ; 

His  eye  beholds  thee  still :  his  circling  arm 

Shall  be  thy  refuge  from  all  future  harm. 

God  ever  bless  thee,  my  good,  aged  friend, 

And  when  at  length  thy  days  on  earth  must  end, 

May  angels  bear  thy  ransom'd  soul  away 

To  the  bright  regions  of  eternal  day. 


78  To  Mrs.  Susan  Mor  chouse. 


TO  MRS.  SUSAN  MOREHOUSE, 

ON  HER  EIGHTY-SECOND  BIRTHDAY. 

STILL  in  the  flesh  ;  still  left  to  testify 
That  God  is  good,  the  Savior  ever  nigh. 
The  changing  seasons,  as  they  onward  roll, 
Obey  their  great  Creator's  wise  control. 
In  the  vast  universe  there  is  no  spot, 
"Above,  around,  beneath,  where  God  is  not." 
Search  through  the  world,  to  earth's  remotest  bound, 
Still  universal  love  is  smiling  round. 
But  chiefly  man,  his  wond'rous  goodness  shows 
From  lisping  infancy  to  lengthen'd  life's  last  close. 
For  him  He  gave  his  well-beloved  Son 
That  man  might  live  forever  near  His  throne. 
Thy  earthly  spring  is  past,  thy  summer  and  thy  au 
tumn  fled, 

And  the  last  snows  of  winter  settle  on  thy  head. 
What  then,  my  friend?     These  seasons  as  they  roll 
Are  but  the  ante-chambers  of  the  soul ; 
Another  spring  will  come,  where  fadeless  flowers 
Will  shed  their  fragrance  in  celestial  bowers. 
We  greet  thee  now,  on  this  thy  natal  day  ; 
May  peace  and  joy  be  yours  while  here  you  stay, 
And  when  thy  spirit  takes  its  upward  flight 
(In  God's  good  time,  whene'er  he  deems  it  right), 
May  we  all  meet  thee  in  the  realms  of  light. 


Immortality.  "79 


IMMORTALITY. 

IMMORTALITY  !  Thou  glorious,  wond'rous,  never-ending 

theme  ! 
Astounding  thought !  beyond  the  reach  of  all  created 

mind  ; 

The  brightest  spirit  near  the  throne  of  God — 
The  mighty  mind  of  yonder  flaming  seraph, 
Combined  with  all  the  adoring  hosts  of  heaven, 
May  stretch  their  utmost  powers  in  vain  to  grasp 
A  thought  so  lofty,  fearful,  solemn,  and  sublime. 
How,  then,  can  fallen  man,  whose  feeble  lamp 
But  glimmers  in  the  socket — how  shall  he  attempt, 
With  bold,  presumptuous  flight  to  soar 
("  His  heavy  wing  all  damp  with  earthly  dew  ") 
Into  th'  eternal  regions,  and  search  out 
The  marvellous  mystery  of  his  future  being? 
Could  reason  demonstrate,  philosophy  unfold, 
Or  struggling  science  point  to  life  eternal, 
The  few  faint  gleams  of  light  which  lingered  still 
In  man's  degenerate  nature  could  but  suffice, 
k-  Like  lamps  in  sepulchres,"  to  show 
The  awful  ruin  of  his  darken'd  soul. 
Four  thousand  years  did  universal  night 
(Save  but  in  one  small  spot)  o'erspread  the  world — 
God  and  his  glorious  attributes  forgotten, 
And  Satan  reign'd  supreme. 
Poor  man,  created  in  his  Maker's  image, 
Pursued  by  hell's  foul  legions,  walked  the  earth 
In  superstitious  dread,  and  doubt,  and  ignorance, 
And  then  went  trembling  to  the  gates  of  death  ; 

o  c^ 

No  hope,  no  light,  no  life,  beyond  the  grave  ; 


80  "  Lay  up   Tour    Treasures  in  Heaven."" 

Helpless,  abandon'd,  guilty,  wretched,  lost! 

Lift  up  your  eyes,  lift  up  your  grateful  hearts, 

Ye  wand'ring,  fainting,  fearful  sons  of  men ! 

Darkness  rolls  back  to  hell,  the  parting  clouds  reveal, 

High  in  the  ethereal  vault  the  glorious  morning  star ! 

'Tis  risen,  indeed,  with  healing  in  its  wings. 

Rejoice,  oh,  earth  !     The  sacred  omen  hail ! 

Let  the  glad  tidings  spread  around  the  world  : 

The  Savior  comes!  and  God  is  reconciled  to  sinful  man ; 

Peace  to  the  troubled  earth — "  Hosanna  in  the  Highest !  " 


LAY  UP  YOUR  TREASURES  IN  HEAVEN." 

GOLCONDA'S  mines  may  yield  to  thee 
Their  richest  gems  of  living  light ; 

And  India's  priceless  pearls  may  be 
Display'd  to  thy  admiring  sight — 

And  Beauty's  fascinating  form 

And  nameless  graces  may  be  thine, 

And  honor's  wreath  thy  brow  adorn, 

And  thou  may'st  bow  at  pleasure's  shrine. 

Yes,  wealth  and  beauty,  fame  and  power, 
And  youth  and  love  may  be  thine  own  ; 

Yet  what  avails  in  trouble's  hour 

The  charm  the  world  has  'round  thee  thrown? 

Oh,  lilt  thine  eyes,  thy  heart  on  high  ; 

See  all  the  glorious  gems  of  Heaven — 
View  them  with  faith's  illumined  eye, 

And  all  their  wealth  to  thee  is  given. 


Farewell.  8 1 


FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL  !  may  no  sad  thought  arise 
To  dim  thine  eye  with  sorrow  ; 

The  luckless  wretch  you  now  despise 
Will  leave  thee  on  the  morrow. 

Yet  once  I  had  a  golden  dream 
Of  love,  and  bliss,  and  beauty  ; 

A  light  from  Heaven,  whose  cheering  beam 
Made  light  the  path  of  duty. 

Thy  plighted  faith  I  once  possess'd, 
And  fondly  deern'd  thee  mine — 

I  scarce  could  clasp  thee  to  my  breast, 
A  treasure  half  divine, 

Ere  some  fell  demon's  envious  spite 
Thy  heart  with  coldness  steeling, 

Destroy'd  my  bliss,  put  out  my  light, 
Quench'd  all  thy  tender  feeling — 

And  left  me  but  a  blighted  thing, 

Forever  doom'd  to  languish  ; 
No  hope  to  bear  me  on  her  wing, 

No  love  to  soothe  my  anguish. 

Then,  fare  thee  well,  and  if  no  more 

In  this  wild  world  I  greet  thee, 
Perhaps,  in  a  brighter,  happier  hour, 

Hereafter,  I  may  meet  thee. 


82  A    Vale  of  Tears. 

May  truth,  and  love,  and  joy,  be  thine  ; 

May  richest,  constant  blessings  rise  ; 
A  light  from  Heaven  around  thee  shine, 

And  guide  thee  to  the  skies. 

For  me — no  matter — yet  awhile 
I  '11  bear  my  load  of  sorrow 

Alone,  and  calmly,  sadly  smile 
When  thinking  of  the  morrow. 


A  VALE  OF  TEARS. 

"THE  world  is  but  a  vale  of  tears." 
"Why,  my  friend,  so  melancholy? 
It 's  rolled  for  many  thousand  years, 

And  still  'tis  plump  and  round  and  jolly. 

"  Something  must  be  wrong  within. 

Art  thou  dyspeptic  ?     Got  the  '  blues  ? ' 
Thy  liver  torpid  ?     Out  of  '  tin  ? ' 

Or  heard  some  awful,  shocking  news?" 

"  Why,  no  ;  my  health  is  pretty  good  ; 

And  as  for  news,  why,  there  is  none  ; 
And  I  've  enough  of  daily  food  ; 
But  all  the  world  is  out  of  tune. 

"  Look  on  every  hand,  and  see 

How  sin  and  suffering  abound  ; 
All,  all  is  full  of  misery  ; 

No  happiness  on  earth  is  found !" 

"Then  emigrate — go  to  the  moon, 

Or  get  aboard  some  other  sphere, 
Where  they  keep  things  in  better  tune  ; 
'Tis  good  enough  for  me  just  here. 


The  Baltic  of  Life.  83 

"  Hold  up  your  head,  and  be  a  man  ; 

Thank  God  for  all  his  favors  given  ; 
Be  happy  ;  do  the  best  you  can  ; 

And  do  n't  go  whining  into  Heaven." 


THE  BATTLE  OF  LIFE. 

COMRADES,  the  battle  is  begun, 

The  foe's  in  front  and  ambush'd  round  ; 
Be  firm  and  valiant  every  one — 

Yield  not  a  single  inch  of  ground. 

We  all  must  mingle  in  the  strife 

With  foes  on  earth  and  powers  infernal, 

And  the  battle  is  for  life  ; 
Aye,  it  is  for  life  eternal. 

You  all  have  read  the  famous  story 
Of  that  mad-brain'd  king  of  yore, 

Who,  to  achieve  a  conqueror's  glory, 
Rode  fetlock  deep  in  human  gore. 

All  the  world  bow'd  down  before  him, 

Yet  he  had  no  self-control ; 
Down  to  hell  his  passions  bore  him, 

And  the  wine  cup  drown'd  his  soul. 

The  wond'rous,  mighty  Corsican, 
Ambition's  modern  meteor,  too, 

With  conquering  hosts  he  led  the  van  ; 
The  despot's  crown  was  full  in  view. 

(And  soon  supreme  in  power  he  sits) 
His  eagles  o'er  the  nations  flew ; 

But  ah,  the  "sun  of  Austerlitz  " 
Went  down  at  Waterloo  ! 


The  Battle  of  Life. 

Though  Croesus'  wealth  were  a1!  thine  own, 
And  all  the  earth  its  tribute  pour, 

And  thou  could'st  wear  e'en  Plutus'  crown, 
Would  this  avail  in  trouble's  hour? 

When  the  pale  archer  full  in  sight, 
Selects  thy  arrow  from  its  sheath, 

Will  then  the  diamond's  radiant  light, 
Illume  the  gloomy  vale  of  death? 

When  the  siren,  sensual  pleasure, 
Woos  thee  with  her  sweetest  smile, 

And  presents  her  Circean  treasure, 
All  thy  senses  to  beguile  ; 

Oh  !  beware  the  strong  delusion 
That  would  all  thy  soul  inflame, 

Lost  in  hopeless,  dire  confusion, 
Thou  art  cover'd  o'er  with  shame. 

Sensual  pleasure,  wealth,  and  glory 

(Th'  enchanting  cup  full  to  the  brim) — 

Satan  spreads  them  all  before  thee 
If  thou  wilt  but  worship  him. 

And  the  foes  within  are  urging 
(What  a  host  in  ambush  lies) — 

Evil  passions,  wildly  surging, 
Bar  thy  pathway  to  the  skies. 

Up  !  and  nerve  thee  for  the  fight ; 

Down,  down  with  every  treacherous  foe  ; 
Up  and  battle  for  the  right — 

"Liberty's  in  every  blow." 

Forward — Charge  !  the  foe  is  nigh — 
"  Destruction!'1''  is  his  battle  cry  ; 

See  the  black  flag  waving  high  ; 
Thou  must  conquer  or  must  die! 


Hurrah !  85 

;  Up  and  at  them  !  "     Ha  !  receding, 

Faint  and  powerless — dost  thou  yield  ? 
Where's  thy  courage?     Wounded,  bleeding, 
Hast  thou  lost  th'  inglorious  field?  " 

Vain  is  all  thy  haughty  bearing, 

Vain  thy  vaunting  and  thy  dash  ; 
Self-confiding,  rashly  daring, 

Trusting  in  thy  arm  of  flesh  ! 

Hark  !  a  trumpet.     No  surrender  ! 

Rescue,  rescue — soldiers  stand  ! 
Rally  round  your  Great  Defender ; 

See,  our  "  Captain  "  is  at  hand  ! 

Invincible^  he  comes  to  save  ; 

"  Hail,  Immanuel !    Savior,  hail !  " 
Fight  where'r  his  banners  wave, 

And  you  will  not,  can  not  fail. 


HURRAH ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  ordeal  is  past ; 
A  glorious  battle  's  won  at  last ; 
Hurrah  for  Hayes  !  and  Tilden  too  ! 
Hurrah  for  all  good  men  and  true  ! 

Up  with  the  starry  banner  high  ! 
Hurrah  for  Freedom's  victory  ! 
Patriots,  your  joyful  voices  raise — 
Hurrah  for  Tilden  and  for  Hayes  ! 

No  more  shall  hateful  party  strife 
Endanger  our  lov'd  nation's  life  ; 
If  freemen  to  themselves  are  true, 
Nought  shall  e'er  our  country  rue. 


86  Hurrah! 

No  widow's  tears  or  orphan's  cry 

Mingle  with  shouts  of  victory. 

Hurrah  !  Eureka  !  it  is  found — 

The  freeman's  home,  on  hallowed  ground. 

Not  o'er  foreign  foes  exulting, 
Who,  our  country's  flag  insulting, 
Forced  by  patriot  bands  to  yield, 
Died  upon  the  ensanguin'd  field. 

Not  o'er  armies  overthrown, 
By  mad  ambition  trampled  down  ; 
That  one  may  sit  supreme  in  state 
With  cringing  millions  at  his  feet. 

But  that  the  love  of  ^poiver  and  -place 
(The  curse  of  Adam's  fallen  race), 
A  willing  sacrifice  is  made 
On  freedom's  altar,  freely  laid. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !     Brother,  your  hand, 
Whate'er  your  politics,  we  stand 
For  country,  peace,  a  patriot  band — 
God  bless  our  rescued,  happy  land  ! 


CONTRIBUTED  POEMS. 


THE  DISTRESSED  HIGHWAYMAN. 

(ANONYMOUS.) 

AH  !  family  forlorn  ! 

THE  sport  of  fortune,  famine,  and  mankind  ! 
Compose  thy  grief,  Louisa — stop  those  tears  ; 
Cry  not  so  piteous — spare,  O  !  spare  thy  sire, 
Nor  quite  distract  thy  mother.     Hapless  babes  ! 
What  shall  I  do?     Whichever  way  I  turn, 
Scenes  of  incessant  horror  strike  my  eye ! 
Bare,  barren  walls,  gloom  formidably  around, 
And  not  a  ray  of  hope  is  left  to  cheer ; 
Sorrowing  and  sick,  the  partner  of  my  fate 
Lies  on  her  bed  of  straw  ;  beside  her,  sad, 
My  children  dear  cling  to  her  breasfand  weep.; 
Or,  prest  by  hunger,  hunt  each  nook  for  food, 
And  quite  exhausted,  climb  these  knees  in  vain. 
How  every  asking  eye  appeals  at  once  ! 
Ah,  looks  too  eloquent !     Too  plainly  mark'd— 
Ye  ask  for  bread ;  I  have  no  bread  to  give. 
The  wants  of  nature,  frugal  as  she  is, 
The  little  calls  ahd  comforts  which  support, 
From  day  to  day,  the  feeble  life  of  man, 
No  more,  alas  !  thy  father  can  supply, 
Hard  as  the  season  grips.    The  neighborhood, 
Busied  or  pleas'd,  o'erlook  a  stranger's  woe— 


88  The  Distressed  Highwayman. 

Scarce  knows  the  tenant  of  the  adjoining  house. 

What  thin  partitions  shield  him  from  the  room 

Where  poverty  has  fixed  her  dread  abode. 

Oh  !  fatal  force  of  ill-timed  delicacy, 

Which  bade  me  still  conceal  my  want  extreme. 

Sooner,  alas  !  will  pride  new  gild  her  coach, 

Then  bid  the  warming  faggots  blaze  around 

The  hearth,  where  chill  necessity  resides. 

But  must,  Louisa,  then,  our  tender  babes, 

Must  they,  untimely,  sink  into  the  grave? 

Must  all  be  victims  to  a  fate  so  sore? 

The  world  will  nothing  give  but  barren  frowns. 

What  then  remains?    There  stands  the  wretched  hut 

I  dare  not  enter.     Heaven,  befriend  them  all ! 

What  then  remains?     The  night  steals  on  apace  ; 

The  sick  moon  labors  through  the  mixing  clouds. 

Yes,  that  were  well ;  oh,  dire  necessity  ! 

It  must  be  so.     Despair,  do  what  thou  wilt ! 

I  faint  with  fear, 

With  terror  and  fatigue.     This  forest's  gloom 
Made  gloomier  by  the  deep'ning  shades  of  night, 
Suits  well  the  sad  disorders  of  my  soul. 
The  passing  owl  shrieks  horribly  her  wail, 
And  conscience  broods  o'er  her  prophetic  note  ; 
Light  springs  the  hare  upon  the  wither'd  leaf, 
The  rabbit  frolics,  and  the  guilty  mind 
Starts  at  the  sound  as  at  a  giant's  tread. 
Ah,  me  !     I  hear  the  horse  along  the  road  ; 
Forgive  me,  Providence  ;  forgive  me,  man  ! 
I  tremble  through  the  heart ;  the  clatt'ring  hoof 
Re-echoes  through  the  wood — the  moon  appears 
And  lights  me  to  my  prey. 


The  Distressed  Highwayman.  8 

Stop,  traveler ! 

Behold  a  being  born  like  thee  to  live, 
And  yet  endow'd  with  fortitude  to  die, 
Were  his  alone  the  pang  of  poverty ; 
But  a  dear  wife  now  starving  far  from  hence, 
Seven  hapless,  hungry  children  at  her  side  ; 
A  frowning  world,  and  an  ungrateful  friend, 
Urge  him  to  actions  which  his  heart  abhors. 
Assist  us,  save  us,  pity  my  despair ! 
O'erlook  my  fault  and  view  me  as  a  man. 
A  fellow-mortal  sues  to  thee  for  bread, 
Invites  thy  charity,  invites  thy  heart ; 
Perhaps  thou  art  a  husband  and  a  father : 
Think,  if  thy  babes,  like  mine,  dejected  lay, 
And  held  their  little  hands  to  thee  for  food— 
What  would'st  thou  have  me  do,  wert  thou,  like  me, 
Driven  to  despair  like  mine?     Oh  !  then  befriend — 
Make  our  sad  case  your  own ;  I  ask  no  more, 
Nor  will  I  force  what  bounty  can  not  spare. 
Let  me  not  take,  assassin-like,  the  boon 
While  humbly  bending  at  thy  foot  I  begg'd 
Ne'er  till  this  night. 

God  speed  thee  on  thy  way ! 
May  plenty  ever  sit  within  thy  house  ! 
If  thou  have  children,  angels  guard  their  steps  ; 
Health  scatter  roses  round  each  little  cheek, 
And  heaven  at  last  reward  thy  soul  with  bliss ! — 
He's  gone,  and  left  his  purse  within  my  hand  ; 
Thou  much-desired,  thou  often  sought  in  vain — 
Sought  while  the  tears  were  swimming  in  my  eyes — 
Sought,  but  not  found — at  length  I  hold  thee  fast. 
Swift  let  me  fly  upon  the  wings  of  love, 
And  bear  the  blessing  to  my  fainting  babes  ; 
Then  gently  take  Louisa  in  my  arms 
And  whisper  to  the  mourner,  "  happier  days  !  " 


9°  The  Distressed  Highwayman. 

Hark  !  what  noise  was  that? 
'Twas  the  dull  bittern  booming  o'er  my  head. 
While  yet  the  decent  dress  remain'd  in  store, 
To  visit  my  Eugenius  like  myself; 
Now  shame,  confusion,  memory,  unite 
To  drive  me  from  his  door. 

Ah  !  cruel  man  ! 

Too  barbarous  Eugenius  ;  this  from  thee  ? 
Have  I  not  screen'd  thee  from  a  parent's  wrath? 
Shared  in  thy  transports,  in  thy  sorrows  shar'd? 
Were  not  our  friendships  in  the  cradle  form'd? 
Gain'd  they  not  strength  and  firmness  as  we  grew? 
And  dost  thou  shift  with  fortune's  veering  gales? 
Dost  thou  survey  me  with  a  critic's  eye 
And  shun  thy  friend,  because  (oh,  blush  to  truth  ! 
Oh,  stain  to  human  sensibility !), 
Because  his  tattered  garments  to  the  wind 
And  every  passenger  more  deep  betray 
The  extremity  severe  !     Then,  fare  thee  well ! 
Quick,  let  me  seek  my  homely  shed  again ; 
Fly  from  the  wretch  who  triumphs  o'er  my  rags  ; 
On  my  Louisa's  faithful  bosom  fall, 
Hug  to  my  heart  my  famish' d  fondlings  round, 
Together  suffer  and  together  die. 

What  piles  of  wealth, 

What  loads  of  riches  glitter  through  each  street ; 
How  thick  the  toys  of  fashion  crowd  the  eye  ! 
The  lap  of  luxury  can  hold  no  more  ; 
Fortune  so  rapid  rolls  the  partial  shower 
That  ev'ry  passion  sickens  with  excess, 
And  nauseates  the  banquet  meant  to  charm  ! 
Yet,  what  are  all  these  golden  scenes  to  me — 
These  splendid,  modish  superfluities  ; 


The  Distressed  Highwayman.  gi 

What  are  these  bright  temptations  to  the  poor? 
The  raven  follows  her ;  the  dusky  air 
Thickens  each  form  upon  the  cheated  sight. 
Ha  !  something  shot  across  the  way,  methinks  ! 
'Tis  but  the  shadow  of  this  stripling  tree 
That  throws  its  baby  arms  as  blows  the  gale. 
Each  object  terrifies  Guilt's  anxious  heart ! 
The  robber  trembles  at — 

What  have  I  said? 

Robber!    Well  may  I  start.     O,  heaven  ! 
Shall,  then,  Louisa  live  on  spoil? 
Shall  my  poor  children  eat  the  bread  of  theft? 
And  have  I,  at  the  peaceful  hour  of  night, 
Like  some  malignant  thing  that  prowls  the  wood — 
Have  I,  a  very  felon  !  sought  relief 
By  means  like  these?     And  yet  the  traveler 
Gave  me  what  I  ask'd,  as  if  in  charity ; 
Perhaps  his  heart,  compassionately  kind, 
Gave  from  an  impulse  it  could  not  resist ; 
Perhaps  't  was  fear  lest  murder  might  ensue  ; 
Alas  !  I  bore  no  arms,  no  blood  I  sought. 
How  knew  he  that?     Yet,  sure,  he  might  perceive 
The  harden'd  villain  spoke  not  in  my  air ; 
Trembling  and  cold,  my  hand  was  joined  with  his, 
My  knees  shook  hard,  my  feeble  accents  fail'd  ; 
The  father's,  husband's  tears  bedew' d  my  face, 
And  virtue  almost  triumph'd  o'er  despair ; 
Yet  strikes  the  thought  severely  on  my  heart, 
The  deed  was  foul.     Soft,  let  me  pause  awhile  ! 
Again  the  moonbeams  break  upon  the  eye  ; 
Guilt  bears  me  to  the  ground — I  .faint — I  fall ! 
The  means  of  food  should  still  be  honest  means, 
Else  were  it  well  to  starve. 


92  The  Old  Farm  Spring. 


THE  OLD  FARM  SPRING. 

BY   MISS   KACHEL   SIGLER. 

OH,  choicest  water!  purest  rill, 
Outspringing  from  the  grand  old  hill — 
Not  roaring  sea,  or  mighty  river, 
Higher  extols  the  gracious  Giver. 
Here  thirst  with  bounty  freely  meets  ; 
Here  Mother  Earth  unfolds  her  sweets, 
And  pours  from  her  bosom's  purest  vein 
Kind  gifts  from  God  to  sons  of  men. 

I  view  again  this  cherish'd  spot ; 
The  years  have  many  changes  wrought 
In  house,  and  tree,  and  sheltering  barn, 
In  fence  and  field  throughout  the  farm  ; 
But  the  old  spring  wears  its  lov'd  face  yet, 
As  though  't  would  not  old  friends  forget ; 
And  its  sparkling  depth  is  pure  and  cold 
As  when  I  quaffed  in  days  of  old. 

Same  cherry  tree,  with  limbs  inclin'd 

O'er  stony  wall,  with  ivy  lin'd  ; 

Fragrant  ivy  !     Still  it  clings, 

Forming  a  curtain,  while  it  brings 

Its  tendrils  down,  like  some  fond  thing, 

Till  it  drinks  again  from  the  dear  old  spring  ; 

While  I  list  to  the  gurgle  and  murmur  below, 

Where  the  cattle  drank,  and  old  willows  grow. 

* 

Bright,  happy  days  revisit  me  ; 
Here  oft  I  came  in  childish  glee, 
Leaping  and  skipping  at  merry  will 


Faith.  93 

Each  stepping  stone  adown  the  hill. 
My  tin  pail  fill'd,  I  sat  me  down 
To  muse — here,  on  this  mossy  stone, 
And,  leaning  over,  aptly  caught 
Reflection  of  my  face — or  thought 
Till  mother's  voice  fell  on  my  ear — 
Those  loved  tones  now  I  seem  to  hear — 
"Come  quickly,  child,  I  'm  waiting  now," 
And  quickly  I  scal'd  the  slight  hill's  brow. 

A  happy  household  band  were  we  ; 

Brothers  and  sisters  blithe  and  free  ; 

Our  light  tasks  done,  we  knew  no  rein 

Through  fields  of  corn,  or  tangled  grain  ; 

The  farm  our  province — braving  toil ; 

Fruit,  grapes  and  nuts  our  lawful  spoil. 

Ah  !  these  pursuits  were  childhood's  own  ; 

But  have  we  ever  sweeter  known? 

Our  feet  have  turned  to  other  fields, 

Other  resource  its  product  yields  ; 

Of  friends,  and  wealth,  and  earnest  lore, 

We  have  received  a  goodly  store  ; 

Our  hands,  we  hope,  some  good  have  wrought ; 

Pleasures  and  blessings  dearly  bought — 

But  few  have  proved  like  this  "  old  spring," 

A  bliss  alway  without  a  sting. 


FAITH. 

BY   MRS.   S.    Z.    KAUFFMAN. 

BLESSED  Parent,  how  I  love  thee  ; 

How  thou  dost  my  spirit  cheer, 
And  I  never  can  be  lonely 

When  I  feel  thou  art  so  near. 


94  Faith. 

Thou  art  with  me  in  the  day  time, 
Thou  art  with  me  through  the  night, 

And  doth  lovingly  preserve  me 
To  enjoy  the  morning  light. 

Thou  hast  been  my  kind  preserver 
In  the  cold  and  chilly  past, 

And  I  know  Thy  kind  protection 
Will  forever,  ever  last. 

Thou  hast  blessed  me  with  Thy  visits 
In  my  humble  cottage  home  ; 

Thou  art  with  me,  ever  with  me, 
No  matter  wrhere  I  roam. 

Thou  the  fatherless  hast  promised 
That  a  father  Thou  wouldst  be, 

That  dear  promise  is  not  broken  ; 
Thou'rt  a  father  unto  me. 

Thou  hast  always  kindly  watched  me, 
And  when  erring  Thou  did'st  chide  ; 

And  Thy  tender  arm  of  safety 
Is  forever  by  my  side. 

When  with  gay  and  happy  sunshine, 
Every  field  is  covered  o'er  ; 

Or  when  gloomy  clouds  are  gathering, 
And  when  thunders  loudly  roar, 

I  can  lean  upon  Thy  bosom, 
Be  secure  from  every  ill  ; 

Thou  canst  calm  the  raging  tempest 
By  commanding,  "Peace,  be  still." 

For  thy  mercies  I  wrill  serve  Thee  ; 

Fill  my  heart  with  holy  fire, 
And  when  done  with  life's  sore  trials, 

Let  me  join  the  heavenly  choir. 


'•'•Pear  Not,  for  I  Am  with    Thcc."  95 


ON  THE  PRESENTATION  OF  AN  UMBRELLA. 

BY   MRS.   E.   WALKER. 

IN  wintry  storms  or  summer  showers, 

When  threat'ning  clouds  in  rain  descend, 

May  this  to  you  a  shelter  be, 

And  prove  a  comfort  and  a  friend. 

And  may  you,  through  the  trials  of  life, 
In  peace  and  safety  e'er  be  borne, 

And  evermore  in  Jesus  find 

A  rest,  a  refuge  from  the  storm. 


"FEAR  NOT,  FOR  I  AM  WITH  THEE." 

BY   MISS    MAGGIE    WALKER. 

I  WILL  not  fear  the  path  of  life, 
With  Jesus  for  my  guide  ; 

However  great  the  toil  and  strife, 
He's  always  by  my  side. 

I  will  not  fear  the  tempter's  power — 

He  can  not  do  me  harm, 
For  Jesus  in  temptation's  hour 

Will  shield  me  with  his  arm. 

I  will  not  fear  the  darkest  day, 
When  all  seems  sad  and  drear, 

And  earthly  friends  have  pass'd  away, 
If  Jesus  still  is  near. 

I  will  not  fear  when  life  shall  end, 
And  death  approaches  fast, 

For  Jesus,  who  has  been  my  Friend, 
Will  take  mv  soul  at  last. 


g6  Decoration  Day, 


DECORATION  DAY. 

BY   MISS   SARAH   CRAVEN. 

O,  golden  sunbeams  kiss  away 

The  tears  that  night  has  shed 
On  the  low  beds  where  sleep  to-day, 

Our  country's  honored  dead. 

For — God  be  praised — the  night  of  tears 

And  strife  has  passed  away, 
And  o'er  these  later,  happier  years, 

Peace  sheds  the  golden  day. 

No  grief  we  bring,  no  sighs-  we  breathe, 

To  greet  the  victor's  grave, 
But  fresh,  sweet  flowers,  each  breast  to  wreathe, 

That  bled  our  land  to  save. 

Fair  lilies  twine  with  roses  red, 

Fit  emblems,  each  the  sign 
Of  martyr's  souls,  of  blood  they  shed 

On  freedom's  sacred  shrine. 

Above  the  valiant  dead  we  kneel 

And  scatter  blossoms  fair  ; 
And  may  each  fragrant  flower  reveal 

The  grateful  love  we  bear. 

Long  as  the  flag  they  loved  so  well 

Shall  proudly  wave  on  high, 
Fame  shall  their  deeds  of  valor  tell 

In  words  that  can  not  die. 


To  Dear  Fannie. 

Oh,  may  the  mantle  of  the  slain 

On  their  survivors  rest, 
That  they  our  rights  shall  dare  maintain 

With  firm  and  loyal  breast. 

And  when  the  Lord  shall  grant  "  His  own  " 

The  victor's  palm  to  bear, 
May  we  with  them  around  His  throne 

Heaven's  fadeless  blossoms  wear. 


TO  DEAR  FANNIE. 

BY   MRS.   M.   E.    MILLAR. 

DARLING  FANNIE,  sister  mine, 
Love  I  will  those  eyes  of  thine ; 
They're  not  eyes  of  midnight  hue, 
Nor  of  deep  cerulean  blue, 
Veil'd  'neath  silken  lashes  long — 
Eyes  of  gray  to  her  belong  ; 
Tell-tale  eyes,  that  oft  reveal 
Secrets  thou  wouldst  fain  conceal ; 
Each  emotion  of  thy  soul 
Read  I  well — they  spurn  control. 
Doth  pale  sorrow  ever  bring 
To  my  gladsome  heart  its  sting? 
Breathe  I  in  thy  list'ning  ear 
Aught  of  joy,  or  hope,  or  fear? 
Read  I  all  my  soul  would  know- 
Sympathy  for  every  woe — 
Joy,  for  all  that's  joy  to  me, 
Fairest  hope  or  mirthful  glee. 
Love,  despair,  by  turns  there  reign, 
Ofttimes  pleasure,  sometimes  pain — 
Of  countless  wealth,  those  eyes  of  thine, 
Darling  Fannie,  sister  mine. 


98  Whom  the  Lord  Loveth  He   Chastencth. 


WHOM  THE  LORD  LOVETH  HE  CHASTENETH. 

BY   MISS  -MAGGIE  WALKER. 

•  I'M  sick  and  ill,  I  can  not  work  for  God. 

Why  am  I  so? 

Why  does  He  lay  on  me  His  chastening  rod 
And  lay  me  low? 

They  tell  me  that  this  heavy  trial  is  sent 

By  one  above, 
And  yet  I  thought  that  He  was  good  and  kind 

A  God  of  love. 

Afflicted  one,  why  murmurest  thou?  be  still, 

Thy  God  is  good. 
This' trial  is  just  as  needful  for  thee  as 

Thy  daily  food. 

Enviest  thou  those  busy,  active  ones 

Who  do  His  will? 
Patience,  dear  Christian  !  thou  canst  serve  Him  best 

By  sitting  still. 

Oh  serve  Him,  then,  by  patience  under  trial, 

By  will  resigned  ; 
By  cheerfully  taking  each  sad  lot  that  is 

To  thee  assigned. 

Yes,  on  a  patient  sufferer  Jesus 

Loves  to  look. 
He  feels  for  thee  ;  because  of  all  thy  pains 

He  once  partook. 

Think  it  not  strange,  then,  that  thou,  too,  must  tread 

The  path  He  trod. 
But  think  of  this,  that  each  trial  meekly  borne 

Glorifies  God. 


Little   Things.  99 

Try  and  bear  patiently  whatever  God 

Sees  fit  to  send  ; 
'Twill  not  last  long,  for  up  at  heaven's  gate 

Thy  trials  end. 

There  is  no  sorrow  there  ;  no  weeping  eyes, 

No  cry  of  pain. 
In  heaven  the  anguish  of  the  heart  will  ne'er 

Be  felt  again. 

Then  thou  wilt  see  that  every  bitter  trial 

Thou  hadst  to  bear, 
Was  only  sent  to  make  thy  happiness 

The  greater  there. 

And  then,  methinks,  with  golden  harp  in  hand, 

Thou,  too,  wilt  raise 
Thy  voice  and  sing  with  all  the  ransomed  ones 

The  song  of  praise. 

Thy  song  of  praise  shall  never,  never  cease ; 

'Twill  ever  be 
Wafting  its  strains  towards  the  throne  of  Him 

Who  died  for  thee. 


LITTLE  THINGS. 

BY   MISS    MAGGIE   WALKER. 

OH  !  do  not  think  that  all  the  work 
Which  you  do  every  day 

Is  useless  toil,  or  wasted  time, 
Or  labor  thrown  away. 

O,  no,  dear  child,  it  is  the  work 
Which  God  has  given  to  thee, 

And  all  the  time  you're  doing  it 
He  says,  4i  Do  it  for  me." 


ioo  Little   Things. 

Sometimes  your  work  may  seem  to  you 

So  very,  very  small ; 
Perhaps  it  is,  but  yet  your  God 

Takes  notice  of  it  all. 

Your  little  work  eould  never  come 

To  you  all  by  itself; 
Oh,  no,  that  little  work  wa^  sent — 

'Twas  sent  by  God  himself. 

He  knows  that  you  can  serve  him  best 

By  doing  little  things, 
And  if  they're  done  for  him  alone 

What  happiness  it  brings  ! 

But  if,  sometimes,  these  little  things 
Seem  hard  to  you  to  do, 

Remember  that  it  is  the  work 

Which  God  has  given  to  you. 

And  try  to  do  it  cheerfully, 

Whatever  it  may  be, 
For  then  you'll  hear  your  Savior  say, 

"Ye  have  done  it  unto  me." 

And  when  you've  finished  all  the  work 
Which  God  to  you  has  given, 

He'll  ritl you  for  a  better  work, 
A  higher  work  in  heaven. 


(riii1ty,.or  Not  Guilty  f  101 


GUILTY,  OR  NOT  GUILTY? 

BY  MISS  MAGGIE  WALKER. 

A  MAN  was  once  for  murder  caught, 
Before  a  Judge  that  man  was  brought, 
And  then  the  words  rang  through  the  court, 
"  Found  guilty." 

Before  the  Judge  I,  too,  must  stand, 
For  sins  as  countless  as  the  sand ; 
Shall  I  be  filled  with  horror,  and 
"  Found  guilty?" 

Oh  !  if  my  God  should  look  at  me, 
And  all  my  sin  and  misery  see, 
I  know,  I  feel,  that  I  should  be 
.  Found  guilty. 

But  since  he  looks  at  Jesus'  blood, 
And  finds  I'm  washed  in  that  great  flood, 
He  sees,  through  Jesus,  that  I'm  good, — 
"  Not  guilty." 

O,  God  !  in  that  great  judgment  day. 
May  all  my  sins  be  washed  away, 
So  that  thou  canst  not  to  me  say, 
Thou'rt  guilty. 

O,  look  upon  my  dying  Lord ! 
Think  how  his  blood  was  once  outpoured, 
And  speak  that  reassuring  word — 
'kNot  guilty." 


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